
Oass_HA. 

Book_j 1_ 



THE 



(Cugculan t&uegttong 



MARCUS TULLIUS ^CICERO. 



I. CONTEMPT OF DEATH. II. BEARING PAIN. 

III. ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. IV. PERTURBATIONS. 

V. VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 



Vivit, vivetque per omnium saeculorum memoriam. Dumque hoc rerum naturae corpus; 
quod ille pane solus Romanorum anirno vidit, ingenio complexus est, eloquentia illuminavit, 
manebit incolume ; comitem asvi sui laudem Ciceronis trahet ; citiusque in mundo genus homi- 
num, quam hujus nomen cadet. Velleius Palerculus, Lib. ii. 

Opinionum enim commenta delet Dies ; nature judicia confirmat. 

De Natura Deorum, Lib. ii. 



TRANSLATED 

By GEORGE ALEXANDER OTIS, Esq., 

MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY ; TRANSLATOR OP 
BOTTA'S HISTORY OF THE WAR OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. 



BOSTON : 

JAMES B. DOW, PUBLISHER. 
1839. 



»p4 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1839 ? 

BY GEORGE ALEXANDER OTIS, 

in the Clerk's office of the District Court of Massachusetts* 



SDeteication* 



TO 
THE HONORABLE 

JOSIAH QUINCY, LL. D. 

PRESIDENT OF 

HARVARD UNIVERSITY. 

Sir: 

It cheers me like the dawning of a bright day, 
that I can offer this work to the perusal of my 
fellow-citizens, under auspices so benign, and wor- 
thy to welcome its great author, if he could visit 
this new scene, as I hope, of his usefulness and 
glory ; and though I view it more as a tribute to 
his own unparalleled merit, than as a testimony 
that he has found an adequate interpreter ; yet I 
accept it as a happy augury for the destinies of 
our country, when its greatest citizens are seen to 
promote such enterprises ; when they who have 
shared in its counsels, and honoured its highest 
stations, irradiate with their genius the steps of 



IV DEDICATION. 



its infant literature, and make it their glory to 
form its youth to virtue. 

I have endeavoured to bring Cicero to aid them 
in these noble designs ; and, should the effort be 
crowned with success, I shall not have lived in 
vain. This voice of a proscribed patriot, of a 
martyr to republican principles, now addresses 
itself to a nation of republicans for the first time 
since it was stifled amid the ruins of popular gov- 
ernment, which it strove in vain to uphold ; when, 
as Paterculus writes, " abscissa scelere Antonii 
vox publica est : " then to whom should its first 
accents be consecrated, rather than to the Sons of 
our earliest Patriots, who, with equal devotion to 
the same holy cause, and like peril to themselves, 
were prominently instrumental in giving existence 
to this more perfect system of Liberty, destined, I 
trust, to a duration coeval with their own imper- 
ishable names? When Phidias had completed 
his sublime and beautiful statue of Wisdom, he is 
said to have commended himself to the protection 
of her shield : this cast as it were in plaster, from 
her image, by an artist of the same unrivalled 
excellence, aspires to place itself under the iEgis 
of a similar sanctuary. 

George Alexander Otis. 

Boston, April 10th, 1839. 



preface* 



The translator of this work is almost as much 
surprised to find himself the first to offer a version 
of it to his countrymen, as when he found himself 
in the same circumstance with regard to Botta's 
History of our Revolutionary War ; since it has 
existed, in the beautiful language of the original, 
for near two thousand years ; and when Tacitus 
painted the manners of our German ancestors, 
eighteen centuries ago, was even then venerable 
for its antiquity, and had pointed the path of 
virtue to admiring millions; whose merit has 
brought it safely down to us, through intervening 
ages of darkness, and fifteen centuries of manu- 
script ; and whose author has been quoted, in the 
Congress of the United States of America, by no 
incompetent judge, as "The greatest Orator, the 



VI PREFACE. 

greatest Statesman, and the greatest Moralist, that 
ever lived in the tide of Time." One would 
think that such an author ought not to be un- 
known to the literature of a wise and virtuous 
people ; with whom the high importance of educa- 
tion is every day better understood, exciting a 
deeper interest, and new exertions ; as we see by 
the enlightened activity, and princely munificence, 
of our most noble-minded and discerning citizens ; 
at least, that his best work, and upon the most 
exalted theme, for such he seems to pronounce 
this himself, towards the close of the fourth book, 
ought not to remain buried, and locked up, as it 
were, in a dead language ; where no one can 
profit by it without many years of diligent study ; 
and where even the learned themselves are fre- 
quently too much occupied to consult it. 

When, at length, weary of the toys of litera- 
ture, and sickened with its trash, will the sons 
and daughters of this high-minded Republic be 
likely " to close their ears to the most eloquent 
voice of wisdom ? " will they neglect to read a 
volume recommended by all the attraction of nov- 
elty ; and which no one can read without being 



PREFACE. Vll 

made wiser and better ?' which demonstrates that 
virtue, if not the only good thing, is certainly the 
only road to happiness ; that virtue, gratuitous, 
and self-rewarded, is the only true expediency ; 
that, in comparison with virtue, health, riches, 
fame, and power, even life itself, are but as the 
dust of the balance ? What people has the world 
ever seen, or the sun ever shone upon, more 
worthy to appreciate and propagate by their exam- 
ple these noble maxims, than the one to whom 
they are now addressed ? Will they not place this 
work in the hands of all who can read, from the 
village school to the highest University ? Will 
there be one among them to oppose the introduc- 
tion of this hidden treasure into the currency of 
our literature, when the only recompense desired 
for the arduous attempt, is, that they will read, 
mark, learn, and inwardly digest the Tusculan 
Questions ? 

I cheerfully accede to the wish of the Book- 
seller, who has the sole pecuniary interest in the 
present edition, in publishing the following letters 
from the distinguished authority referred to in the 
foregoing remarks ; since they contain a beautiful 



Vlll PREFACE. 

confirmation of his great esteem for Cicero; a 
glimpse of the difficulty and desirableness of a 
good American version of his works : and bear 
the stamp of one, as Pope says of Longinus, 

Who is himself that great sublime he draws. 

George Alexander Otis, Esq., Boston. 

Washington, 17 February, 1839. 
Dear Sir : 

Accept my warm and cordial thanks for your 
kind letter of the 14th inst., and for the version of the 
first Tusculan, which comes upon me like a draught of 
fresh water in the desert of Zaara. I shall read it before 
and after the session of Congress, now drawing to a 
close. — I readily consent to the publication, at your 
discretion, of my former letter to you, and remain, very 
respectfully, your friend and serv't, ' 

J. Q. Adams. 

George Alexander Otis, Esq., Boston. 

Quincy, 4 November, 1833. 
Dear Sir : 

I have read with great attention your revised 
translation of the first four chapters of Cicero's Offices ; 
and, if you can pass the remainder of the work through 
the same process with equal success, I have no hesitation 



PREFACE. IX 

in advising you to publish it. To my taste, your trans- 
lation is now better than Guthrie's. But, if not better, 
it is another. Its novelty would excite curiosity, and 
attract readers to the Offices, and perhaps even to the 
other works of Cicero. Whoever does this, deserves 
well of his country. 

Let me recommend it to you, however, after going 
through the whole work as you have with the first chap- 
ters, to give it a second and a severely scrutinizing 
revisal. The language of Cicero, perhaps more than 
that of any other profane writer, is at once the language 
of thought and of feeling. The mind and the heart are 
all in it. 

Your introductions to the second and the fifth chapters 
leave something to be desired. The second chapter is 
almost worthy of divine inspiration. He is about to 
speak to his son of duties ; and he says that, intending 
to write something to him now, and many things here- 
after, (he does not say treatises,) he has thought best to 
begin with that which is most adapted to his son's age, 
and at the same time a duty incumbent upon him, in the 
exercise of his parental authority. Observe the power 
of the words, — " setati tuse aptissimum" and " auctori- 
tati mese gravissimum." The greatest favour that he 
can bestow upon his son, is the heaviest burden of his 
own duty as a parent. In granting the favour, he fulfils 
the duty. Something like this would convey the idea : 

" But, having determined to address to you some 
written discourse at this time, and much hereafter, I 
have thought it best to begin with that which is at once 



X PREFACE. 

most adapted to your age, and most incumbent upon the 
exercise of my parental authority." The word gravis- 
simum implies the discharge of a deep obligation ; and 
how admirably it is adapted to that maxim of universal 
morality which immediately succeeds ! 

" Nulla enim vitse pars neque publicis, neque privatis ; 
neque forensibus, neque domesticis in rebus: neque si 
tecum agas quid, neque si cum altero contrahas, vacare 
officio potest : in eoque colendo sita vitse est honestas 
omnis, et in negligendo turpitudo." 

The fifth chapter begins, — " Formam quidem ipsam, 
Marce fili, et tanquam faciem honesti vides ; quae si 
oculis cerneretur, mirabiles amores, ut ait Plato, excitaret 
Sapientiae." 

He has been defining and delineating the nature, prop- 
erties, and character of the to xakov of Plato, which 
he terms Honestum. It imports not only what we term 
honest, but, superadded to it, the sense of propriety, of 
order, of decorum — of grace. It is, in the abstract moral 
beauty — ornamented integrity. We have no word for 
it in our language. Would we had more of it in our 
hearts ! It was one of the sublimest conceptions of the 
lofty genius of Socrates, promulgated and elucidated by 
his great disciple Plato ; and was unknown to the mag- 
nificent but ruder grandeur of the Roman morals, until 
introduced among them by Cicero himself; and he, as in 
many other instances, was obliged to use an old word to 
express a new thought. In this passage, he draws, at 
some length, a portraiture of what he means ; and, hav- 
ing completed the picture, he says, with warm though 



PREFACE. XI 

tempered emotion, " See ! there you have it ! My dear 
son Marcus — the very image, and, as it were, physiog- 
nomy of Honesty. And, as Plato says of Wisdom, could 
you but discern her with your eyes, how exquisitely 
lovely, embodied in human form, would she appear ! " 
The apostrophe to his son is not there by chance. The 
mere words would be rendered in English by " Son 
Marcus." But the vocative case in the Latin language 
is a call as well as an appellation. They are words of 
tenderness and endearment. He has been describing a 
beautiful creation of the fancy, in the personification of 
a moral attribute ; and he presents this imaginary per- 
sonage in the form of female beauty to his youthful son. 
Delighted himself in the contemplation of this fair per- 
fection, his bosom swells with the affection of a father 
introducing to his son a companion of transcendent 
beauty, to be the partner of his life, to go with him into 
the assemblies of the people, the Forum, or the Senate, 
and return with him to his home, to cheer and charm his 
solitude, and to share in all the vicissitudes of his inter- 
course with the world. Now, it is difficult, perhaps, to 
be made sensible of this ardent pulsation of united pater- 
nal love and enthusiastic virtue, when the object to be 
presented is mere honesty, — a quality, as understood in 
the English language, of the highest intrinsic excellence, 
but usually rather plain, and sometimes homely in out- 
ward appearance. 

I have hazarded these remarks on two passages of 
your present translation, rather as examples of the spirit 
with which I would urge you to complete your under- 



Xll PREFACE. 

taking, than to object to the passages as they now stand 
in your version. Although the style of Cicero is diffu- 
sive, you will very seldom find in his writings a word 
not pregnant with meaning — with sense or sensibility: 
nor will his whole meaning disclose itself to a single or 
a cursory reading. When you have caught the general 
idea conveyed in one of his periods, you will find it 
useful to weigh every word of which it is composed; 
and you will often discover, in single words, a collateral 
or incidental train of thought encircling the principal 
sentiment, like a garland of roses crowning a beautiful 
head. 

If your translation of the Offices should succeed in 
proportion to its value, I hope you will follow it up with 
a version of the treatises on Old Age and Friendship, the 
Dream of Scipio, the Paradoxes, and even the Tusculans ; 
one of which has, however, been recently translated by 
Professor Stuart, of Andover, A good American trans- 
lation of all Cicero's works would be a jewel of great 
price. There is not, to my knowledge, a good English 
translation of any one of them extant. 

I am, with great respect, Dear Sir, 

your friend and serv't, 

John Quincy Adams, 



TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 



When at length relieved, my dear Brutus, 
either altogether or in a great measure, from the 
labour of the forum, and senatorial duties, I betook 
myself, chiefly at your exhortation, to those stud- 
ies, which, held in mind, dropped at times, after a 
long interval of suspension, I have recalled ; and, 
since the method and discipline of all arts, which 
relate to the right way of living, are contained in 
the study of wisdom, called philosophy, I have 
thought it my part to illustrate this in our own 
language ; not because philosophy might not be 
known by means both of Greek authors and 
teachers ; but it has always been my judgment, 
that our countrymen have either invented of 
themselves more wisely than the Greeks, or have 
made every thing better which they received 
from them; at least, whatever they thought 
worth the labour. For, in the manners and cus- 
1 



D THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

toms of life, in domestic and family concerns, we 
certainly manage better, both as to matter and 
style ; while our ancestors have constituted the 
republic with undoubtedly better both institutions 
and laws. Why should I speak of the military 
concern, wherein, however much our countrymen 
have signalized their valour, they are still more 
distinguished for their discipline ? Indeed, as to 
every thing, which admits of being attained by 
nature, without assistance from letters, they are to 
be compared neither with the Greeks, nor with 
any other nation. For, what gravity, what con- 
stancy, magnanimity, probity, fidelity, ever was 
so great — what virtue of every kind so excellent, 
in any people, as to admit them to comparison 
with our ancestors ? In learning, and every kind 
of literature, Greece surpassed us. It was easy to 
vanquish, when the palm was not disputed. For, 
as with the Greeks, the most ancient of the learn- 
ed was the race of poets ; at least, if Homer and 
Hesiod existed prior to the foundation of Rome, 
and Archilochus during the reign of Romulus. 
The reception of poetry among us was rather 
backward ; for it was nearly five hundred and ten 
years from the building of the city, when Livius 
furnished a comedy for exhibition in the Consul- 
ship of Caius Claudius, the son of Csecus, and M. 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 7 

Tuditanus, the year previous to the birth of En- 
nuis, who was elder than Plautus and Nsevius. 
Thus our countrymen were slow, whether in 
making or accepting the acquaintance of the 
poets. Although we read in the Origins, that it 
was customary, at feasts, for the guests to sing to 
the flute the brilliant achievements of illustrious 
men, yet the little credit attached to this kind of 
merit is manifest from the oration of Cato, in 
which he objects it as a reproach to Marcus No- 
bilior, that he permitted poets to attend him into 
his province. That consul took with him, how- 
ever, into iEtolia, as we know, Ennius. Thus, in 
proportion as there was little honour for the poet ; 
there was little zeal for the study. Nor yet, when 
any have existed, whom force of genius has im- 
pelled to this pursuit, have they shown themselves 
unworthy competitors for the glory of the Greeks. 
If it had been thought a merit in Fabius, a man 
of the highest rank, that he painted, is there any 
doubt that we should have had also among us 
many a Polycletus, many a Parrhasius ? Honour is 
the nutriment of the arts ; and all are incited to 
studies by glory ; and those are always neglected, 
which, with any people, are held in disesteem. 
The Greeks considered it the highest accomplish- 
ment to excel in music, both vocal and instru- 



8 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

mental ; therefore, even Epaminondas, in my judg- 
ment, the first man of Greece, is said to have 
managed the lute with exquisite skill ; and The- 
mistocles, some years before, when, at a feast, he 
had declined the lyre, passed for something less 
than a well-taught man. Therefore, music flour- 
ished in Greece; it was cultivated by all; nor, 
without it, could any one have pretension to a 
polite education. Geometry was held by them in 
the highest honour ; and therefore nothing more 
illustrious than their mathematicians. But we 
have advanced the limits of this art no further 
than its uses in surveying and reasoning ; but, on 
the contrary, we rapidly embraced the orator : nor 
him, at first, with erudition, though ready of 
speech ; but afterwards with learning. For Gal- 
ba, Africanus, Laslius, are transmitted by tradition 
as learned. But studious, in the age before theirs, 
as Cato ; after them, however, Lepidus, Carbo, the 
Gracchi ; and then so great, down to our age, as 
to balance very nearly, if not quite, the ascenden- 
cy of the Greeks. Philosophy has been left in 
obscurity until the present age, and has been 
excluded from the light of Latin letters : be it our 
task to receive her to this lustre, and raise her into 
notice, that if, when employed, we rendered some 
service to our fellow-citizens, we may not cease to 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 9 

render it, if we can, when at leisure. This enter- 
prize has claims upon us for the more diligence, 
because there are said to be many Latin books 
already written, with but little consideration, by 
men of the best intentions, no doubt, but superfi- 
cially taught. For it may very well happen, that 
a man may think rightly, and yet be unable to 
give utterance to his sentiments with sufficient 
elegance. But, for any one to consign his 
thoughts to letters, who can neither arrange 
them with method, nor make them intelligible by 
illustration, nor attract the reader with any de- 
light, is the part of a man who rashly abuses both 
his leisure and literature. And, therefore, let 
them read their books themselves with their 
friends; nor let them be touched by any, except 
by those who are like to need the same indul- 
gence for the same license in writing. Where- 
fore, if, by our industry, we have acquired some 
oratorical reputation, we are bound to open the 
fountains of philosophy with the more diligence, 
since from them even that has flowed. But, as 
Aristotle, a man of singular genius, with science 
in profusion, as he was rather stung at the glory 
of the rhetorician Isocrates, began himself to 
teach young men to speak, and thus to unite 

wisdom with eloquence, so it pleases us, without 
1# 



10 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

dropping our accustomed study of speaking, to 
enter the province of this more important and 
exuberant art. For I have always judged this 
to be perfect philosophy, which can speak with 
copiousness and elegance upon the greatest ques- 
tions. We have taken our exercise in this with 
so much assiduity, that already we have ventured 
to hold schools after the custom of the Greeks ; as 
lately, after your departure, in the Tusculan villa, 
when several of my friends were with me, I made 
trial of what I could do in that manner. For as 
aforetime I have declaimed causes, which no man 
has done longer than me, so this is now to be the 
declamation of my declining age. I bade any one 
to propose a subject, upon which he wished to 
hear a disquisition ; upon that, either sitting or 
walking, I discoursed. And thus, the schools, as 
the Greeks call them, of five days, I have con& 
signed to the same number of books. But the 
matter was transacted so, that when he who 
wished to hear had said what appeared to him, 
I then argued against it. For this, you know, is 
the ancient Socratic method of reasoning down 
the opinion of another. For in this manner Soc- 
rates thought what was most probable might be 
discovered with the greater ease. But, in order 
that our disputations may be presented more con- 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 11 

veniently, I shall put them down as if the thing 
were passing, — not in the way of narration. 
Therefore, let the exordium commence thus : 

Auditor. Death appears to me an evil. 

Marcus. To the dead, or to those who are to 
die? 

Auditor. To both. 

Marcus. It causes misery, then, since it is an 
evil. 

Auditor. Certainly. 

Marcus. Consequently, they are miserable to 
whom death has happened, and they to whom it 
will happen. 

Auditor. It appears so to me. 

Marcus. Then there is no one not miserable. 

Auditor. Absolutely not one. 

Marcus. And, indeed, if you choose to be con- 
sistent, all that were ever born, and all that ever 
shall be, are both now and always miserable. 
For, if you were to say, they only are miserable 
who are to die, you would except, it is true, no 
man living ; for all must die ; but yet, in death, 
there would be an end of misery. But since the 
dead also are miserable, we are born to eternal 
misery. For they who died an hundred thousand 
years ago, nay, all that were ever born, are mis- 
erable. 



12 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Auditor, So I look at the matter, of course. 

Marcus. Tell me, pray, whether you fear such 
things in the lower regions, Cerberus of the triple 
head, the roaring of Cocytus, the passage of the 
Acheron, Tantalus dying of thirst, with water at 
his chin, or this of Sisiphus, 

" Who, spent with effort, up hill rolls a stone, 
And, drenched in sweat, his haffied task renews." 

Mayhap, also, the inexorable judges, Minos and 
Rhadamanthus, before whose bench neither Lu- 
cius Crassus, nor Marcus Antonius, can raise their 
eloquent voices in your defence ; nor, though the 
matter will be sifted in the presence of Greek 
judges, can you employ that of Demosthenes ; 
you will have to be your own advocate, and 
manage all the points of the cause yourself, amidst 
an innumerable circle. Perhaps you shrink from 
all this, and thus startle at death as an eternal 
evil. 

Auditor. Do you think me delirious, that I 
should believe those things to be ? 

Marcus. Then you do not believe them ? 

Auditor. Far enough from it. 

Marcus. I am sorry to hear it, by Hercules. 

Auditor. Why, pr'y thee ? 

Marcus. Because there would be scope for 
eloquence, were I to refute them. 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 



13 



Auditor. Who might not be copious, upon 
such a theme? or what mighty task, to cancel 
these horrific fictions of poets and painters ? 

Marcus. But still there are i)ooks filled with 
arguments of philosophers against those very 
things. 

Auditor. Very idly, sure ; for who is there 
silly enough to heed such absurdities ? 

Marcus. If, then, the miserable are not in 
hell, it follows there is nobody there. 

Auditor. Of course. I never dreamed there 
was. 

Marcus. Then, where are the unhappy multi- 
tudes you speak of? or, what place do they inhab- 
it ? for, if they exist, they cannot be nowhere. 

Auditor. And yet, I think they are nowhere 
at all. 

Marcus. And, of course, not to exist at all. 

Auditor. Exactly so ; and yet unhappy, in- 
deed, on that very account, because they are 
reduced to nothing. 

Marcus. Now would I rather you had feared 
Cerberus, than to say so rash a thing as that. 

Auditor. What, I wonder ? 

Marcus. You say of the same man, that he is 
not, and he is. Where is your acumen ? for, when 
you say he is unhappy, you say that he, who is 
not, is. 



14 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Auditor. I am not so dull as to say that. 

Marcus. Then what is it ? 

Auditor. I say, for example, that Marcus Cras- 
sus is miserable, in parting, by death, from such 
fortunes ; that Cneius Pompey is miserable, bereft 
of so much dignity, of so much glory ; in short, 
that every body is miserable, who is shut from 
this light. 

Marcus. You revolve to the same point ; for, 
if they are miserable, it argues that they exist. 
But a moment since, you denied those to exist, 
who are dead. If they do not exist, then they 
can be nothing ; and, of course, neither can they 
be miserable. 

Auditor. Perhaps I do not express myself as I 
think ; for that very thing, not to exist, when you 
have once been, I think is most unhappy. 

Marcus. What ! more so than not to have 
been ever at all ? By that rule, even they who 
are not born as yet are unhappy already, because 
they are not ; and we ourselves, if, after death, we 
are to be unhappy, were just as unhappy before 
we were born. For my own part, I have no 
recollection of being at all unhappy before I was 
born. If your memory is better, I wish to know 
what you remember. 

Auditor. You rally as if you thought I said 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 15 

the unborn are unhappy, instead of those who are 
dead. 

Marcus. Then you insist they are. 

Auditor. Nay, but because they are not, when 
they have been ; in that, I think them unhappy. 

Marcus. Do you not see your utter contradic- 
tions ? For what is so contradictory, as to say of 
him who is not, not only that he is miserable, but 
even that he is anything at all ? When you walk 
out of the Porta Capena, and look at the sepul- 
chres of the Calatini, of the Servilii, of the Metelli, 
do you think them unhappy ? 

Auditor. Since you press me with a word, I 
will drop it, and, for the future, not say are un- 
happy, but only unhappy, for this thing itself, 
because they are not. 

Marcus. So you will not say, miserable is 
Crassus, but only, miserable Crassus. 

Auditor. Exactly so. 

Marcus. As though it were not matter of ne- 
cessity, that whatever you pronounce in that man- 
ner is either so, or not so. Were you never even 
tinctured with dialectics ? for this is the first les- 
son. Every pronunciation, for so I will now call 
a £io)ua — I will find a better word, if I can, 
some other time, is pronounced only because it is 
either true or false. Accordingly, when you say, 



16 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

miserable Crassus, you either say, Crassus is mis- 
erable, that it may be seen whether the assertion 
be true or false, or else you say nothing at all. 

Auditor. Well, then, I give it up ; the dead 
are not miserable ; since you constrain me to ac- 
knowledge, that they who are not at all can by 
no means be miserable at all. But what ? as to 
us who are alive, are we not miserable ? For, 
what pleasantness can there be in life, when, by 
night and by day, we have to reflect already, 
even already, we are to die ? 

Marcus. Do you see, however, what a moun- 
tain of evil you have already removed from the 
human condition ? 

Auditor. In what manner ? 

Marcus. Because, if to die were miserable 
even to the dead, we should have a sort of infi- 
nite and eternal evil in life. Now, I see a goal, 
to which when the race is ran, there is nothing 
else to be feared. But you appear to me to be of 
the opinion of Epicharmus, an acute, and, for a 
Sicilian, not a frivolous man. 

Auditor. What was it ? for I am not aware. 

Marcus. I will say, if I can, in Latin ; for you 
know I as rarely use Greek in a Latin discourse, 
as Latin when speaking in Greek. 

Auditor. And perfectly right. But pray, at 
length, what was that thought of Epicharmus ? 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 17 

" To quit the scene of life I am right loath ; 
Once fairly dead, I set it all at nought." 

Auditor. Yes, that sounds like a Greek. And 
since you have compelled me to confess the dead 
are not unhappy, do me the favour to demonstrate, 
if you can, that it is not to be deemed unhappy, 
that we are to die. 

Mai^cus. As for that matter, indeed, there is 
no difficulty about it ; but I have something of far 
more consequence in view. 

Auditor. How do you make so light a matter 
of this? or what of more consequence can you 
revolve in thought ? 

Marcus. Because, if, after death, there is no 
evil, then death itself is none ; the next space to 
which is after death, where you confess is none. 
Of course, the having to die is not an evil ; for it 
is but arriving at that which we acknowledge to 
be no evil. 

Auditor. Open that, if you please, a little 
wider. For these subtilties rather coerce my con- 
fession than afford me conviction. But what are 
these momentous matters you contemplate ? 

Marcus. To teach not only that death is no 
evil, but, on the contrary, if I can, that it is even 
a good. 

Auditor. I do not even ask that ; yet I long to 
2 



18 



THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 



hear; for though you fail to accomplish what 
you wish 7 you will, at least, make it clear that 
death is not an evil. But I will not interrupt you 
at all. I prefer to hear a continued discourse. 

Marcus, What ! should I ask you something, 
would you not answer ? 

Auditor. That would be haughty, no doubt. 
But, unless it be necessary, I would prefer not to 
be questioned. 

Marcus. I will comply with your wishes, and 
explain what you desire to the best of my ability ; 
not, however, in the character of the Pythian 
Apollo, that all I shall say is to pass for certain 
and established ; but as a man from the fallible 
many, pursuing probabilities by conjecture. For 
I have no means of passing beyond what may 
have the resemblance of truth. Let certainties be 
announced by those who think them accessible, 
and who profess themselves to be wise. 

Auditor. Pursue your own pleasure. As for 
us, we are prepared to listen. 

Marcus. Then we are to inquire, in the first 
place, what seems so well known a thing, what 
death itself is. For there are, who think death 
is the departure of the soul from the body. There 
are, who think no departure takes place, but that 
the soul and body fall together, and the soul ex- 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 19 

tinguished with the body. Of those who think 
the soul to depart : some think it dissipated imme- 
diately, others to remain a long time, others for- 
ever. Moreover, as to what the soul itself is, or 
where, or whence, there is great variety of opinion. 
To some, the heart appears to be the soul ; whence 
the words excordes, for men of slow minds ; vecor- 
des, for those whose minds are infuriate ; Concor- 
des, for men of like minds : and that strong-mind- 
ed Nasica, twice Consul, Corculum ; and Egregie 
cordatus homo catus JElius Sextus. Empedocles 
takes for the soul, the blood that mantles about 
the heart. To some, a certain part of the brain 
seems to hold the office of soul. Some think 
neither the heart nor the brain is the soul, but 
that it resides in one or the other of these organs ; 
some in one, others in the other. But others take 
the soul to be air, as most of our countrymen, 
which is implied by the name itself. For we say 
both agere animam and efflare animam, to give up 
or breathe out the air, or soul ; and animosos, for 
men of soul ; bene animates, for well-affected 
souls : and ex animi sententia, to the soul's con- 
tent. But the soul itself, animus, is so called from 
anima, the air. Zeno the stoic concludes the soul 
to be fire. But thus far as stated, the heart, the 
blood, the brain, air, fire, are opinions of common 



20 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

prevalence ; the rest are almost singular, as were 
many still more ancient ; the more recent, how- 
ever, Aristoxenus, a musician as well as philoso- 
pher ; a certain attuning the body, as in singing 
and the lute, which is called harmony. He ad- 
hered to his profession ; and yet he advanced an 
opinion, which had been long before both sifted 
and explained by Plato. Xenocrates denied the 
soul all figure and substance, as it were, but said it 
was number, the mysterious efficacy of which, as 
it also appeared to Pythagoras much before, was 
very great throughout nature. His teacher, Plato, 
imagined a triple soul, the government of which, 
that is reason, he lodged in the head, as the cita- 
del ; and two parts he proposed for its subjects, 
anger and cupidity, which he distributed in differ- 
ent apartments, anger in the breast, and cupidity 
below the midriff. But Dicaearchus, in that dis- 
course which he represents as held at Corinth, in 
three books, where the interlocutors are learned 
men, many of whom are speakers in the first book, 
in the two, he introduces a certain Pherecrates, an 
old man of Phthiotis, sprung, as he says, from 
Deucalion, asserting that the soul is nothing at 
all, and that this name is empty altogether ; that 
neither in man nor in beast is there any mind or 
soul ; and that all this energy, by which we do oy 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 21 

think anything, is equally diffused through all 
living bodies — not separable from bodies, it being 
a nullity ; and that there is nothing real, except 
the one simple body, so organized, that, by the 
constitution of nature, it lives and thinks. Aris- 
totle, in genius and diligence, I always except 
Plato, far before all, after embracing the four 
principles, which are elements of all things, 
judges there is a certain fifth nature, whence 
the mind exists. For, to think, foresee, learn, 
teach, invent, and so many other things — to re- 
member, love, hate, desire, fear, grieve, rejoice, 
these and such like, he thought could not reside 
in any of the four elements. He imagines a fifth 
genus, wanting a name ; and thus calls the soul 
by the new name, ei>T£fa%ux, as being a certain 
continued and perpetual motion. Unless any 
have, perhaps, escaped me, these are about all the 
opinions in regard to the soul. For Democritus, 
that great man, certainly, but as constituting the 
soul, from the fortuitous concourse of smooth and 
round corpuscles, we may pass. For there is 
nothing, with men of that school, but may be 
effected by a throng of atoms. Of these opinions, 
which is the true, some god may decide : which 
is the most probable, is a long inquiry. Then, 
2* 



22 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

whether shall we submit them to the canvass, or 
return to our purpose ? 

Auditor. I should wish both, if possible ; but 
it is difficult to confound. Wherefore, if, without 
that inquiry, we can be freed from the fear of 
death, let us do so. But, if that is not to be done 
without the previous explanation of this question 
of souls — this, if you please, now, and that at an- 
other time. 

Marcus. What I perceive to have your prefer- 
ence, I think is the more convenient. For reason 
will show that, whichever of the opinions I have 
sketched be true, death is either not an evil, or 
rather, on the contrary, a good. For, if the heart, 
or blood, or brain, be the soul, certainly because it 
is body, it perishes with the rest of the body ; if 
air, perhaps it will be dissipated ; if fire, it will be 
extinguished ; if the harmony of Aristoxenus, it 
will be dissolved. What can I say of Dicsearchus, 
who decides it to be nothing at all ? According 
to all these opinions, there is nothing that can 
interest any one after death. For the sense is lost 
together with life. But to the thing that feels 
not, there can be nothing of moment any where. 
The opinions of the rest afford a hope, if this will 
delight you, perhaps, that souls, when they have 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 23 

left the body, may arrive in heaven, as to their 
proper home. 

Auditor. It certainly delights me. And, in 
the first place, I wish it fact ; and then, if it be 
not, yet I wish to be made to believe it. 

Marcus. Then, what need have you of our 
help ? Can we surpass the eloquence of Plato ? 
Read attentively that book of his upon the soul ; 
you will have nothing left to desire. 

Auditor. I have done it, by Hercules ; and that 
very often, in fact. But I know not how, while I 
read, I assent ; when I lay the book down, and 
begin to reflect with myself upon the soul's im- 
mortality, all that assent slides away. 

Marcus. What say you to this ? Do you ad- 
mit that souls either remain after death, or perish 
by death itself? 

Auditor. I do, of course. 

Marcus. What if they remain ? 

Auditor. I grant they are happy. 

Marcus. In case they perish ? 

Auditor. Not unhappy, because they are not at 
all ; for, indeed, this is what you constrained me 
to admit a little while since. 

Marcus. Then, how or why can you say that 
death appears to you an evil, which either makes 



24 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

us happy, if the soul remain, or not unhappy, 
devoid of all sense ? 

Auditor. Then, show me, if you please, in the 
first place, and if possible, that souls remain after 
death ; then, if not able to reach that point, for it 
is arduous, you will teach that death is void of all 
evil. For I cannot but apprehend that the fact 
itself is an evil, I do not say, to be void of sensa- 
tion, but that we are to become so. 

Marcus. Indeed, we can avail ourselves of the 
best authority in favour of that opinion, which 
you ivish to have established, a thing which 
ought to have, and usually does have, the greatest 
weight ; and, in the first place, that of all antiqui- 
ty, which, from its nearer approach to the origin, 
and divine offspring, therefore better discerned, 
perhaps, the truth of things. 

This one impression, then, was implanted in 
those primeval men, whom Ennius terms cascos^ 
or ancients, that there is sense in death, and that 
man is not so erased by it as to be wholly effaced. 
And this may be collected both from many other 
things, and from the pontifical laws and sepulchral 
ceremonies : which men of such exalted genius 
would neither have cultivated with so much care, 
nor guarded from violation by such impressive 
sanctions unless it had inhered in their minds that 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 25 

death was not a destruction, involving a total and 
absolute demolition, but rather a certain migration 
and change of life, which, with illustrious men 
and women, was usually an introduction into 
heaven ; in the rest, though retained upon earth, 
yet the soul would be permanent. From this 
opinion, even our ancestors were persuaded 

That Romulus enjoys with gods the light 
Of heaven's eternal day, 

as Ennius has said, in accordance with the popular 
creed ; and with the Greeks, and thence gliding to 
us, and even to the ocean, Hercules is held for so 
great and so helpful a god : hence Bacchus, the 
son of Semele, became a god, and the brothers 
Tyndaridae, of the same celebrity of fame, are 
reported not only helpers in battles, to the victory 
of the Roman people, but even to have been the 
messengers to announce it. What ! was not Ino, 
the daughter of Cadmus, called Leucothea by the 
Greeks, and received by our countrymen as the 
goddess of the morning ? What ! that we may 
dispense with naming more, was not all heaven, 
almost, peopled with human offspring ? Indeed, 
were I to scrutinize ancient monuments, and en- 
deavour to ferret out what Grecian writers have left 
upon record, it would be found that even the 



26 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

great gods themselves, as reputed, proceeded from 
among ourselves, to take their rank in heaven. 
Inquire whose sepulchres are shown in Greece ; 
recollect, since you are initiated, the traditions of 
the mysteries ; then, at length, you will have 
some conception of the extent of these deifications. 
But also they who had not yet learned physics, 
which began to be treated many years after, per- 
suaded themselves of as much only as could be 
gathered from the admonition of nature : the rea- 
sons and causes of things were not within their 
reach ; they were often influenced by visions, and 
especially of the night, to think they saw, by 
apparitions, that the departed from life still lived. 
But, also, there is great stress to be laid on this, 
why we should believe there are gods ; because 
there is no nation so savage, no man out of all 
men so barbarous, whose mind is not imbued with 
the opinion of gods. Many hold depraved senti- 
ments in respect to the gods ; for such is the usual 
effect of corrupt creeds; but all admit there is 
some divine power and nature ; nor, indeed, is 
this the effect of collusion, or human convention : 
the opinion has been established neither by insti- 
tutions nor laws. But, in every thing, the con- 
sent of mankind is to be deemed a law of nature. 
Who is there, then, who does not mourn the death 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 27 

of his friends, especially for this, — because he 
thinks them deprived of the sweets of life ? Take 
away this opinion, and you remove grief: for no 
man laments his personal trouble. Men regret, 
perhaps, and are sad at heart : but that dismal 
wailing, and those bitter tears, are caused by our 
thinking that the object we loved so much is 
despoiled of the satisfactions of life, and feels it. 
And these are our impressions from nature herself; 
from no reason, from no instruction. But a strong 
argument, that even nature tacitly points to the 
immortality of souls, is, that all men are thought- 
ful, and especially so, in regard to what shall hap- 
pen after their death. 

" He plants his trees another age to bless,'' 
as Statius says in the Synephebi : with what 
view, unless he thinks he has interest even in 
following ages ? Will the diligent husbandman 
plant trees, then, the fruit of which he will never 
see, and will the great man not plant laws, insti- 
tutions, the republic ? What means the desire of 
posterity, the propagation of name, the adoption of 
children, the diligence of wills ? what the monu- 
mental sepulchre, the funeral eulogy ? what do 
they all intimate, if not, that we have the future 
also in contemplation ? And another thing : have 
you any doubt that the specimen of nature is to 



28 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

be taken from every best nature ? Then what is 
there better in the nature of man, than that of 
those who deem themselves born as helpers, de- 
fenders, and preservers of men ? Hercules is en- 
rolled among the gods. Never would he have 
found his way to heaven, had he not paved it 
while amongst men. That road is beaten now, 
and consecrated by the religion of all men. What 
are we to conceive were the thoughts of so many 
and so great men, who, in this republic, have 
been slain in its cause ? That the memory of 
their names would perish with their lives ? No 
man, without strong hope of immortality, will 
ever offer himself to death for his country. The- 
mistocles might have lived in safe retirement ; so 
might Epaminondas ; so might, not to hunt for 
ancient and foreign examples, we ourselves. But, 
I know not how. there inheres in minds a certain 
augury, as it were, of future ages ; and this, in 
men of the greatest genius and the most lofty 
spirit, is more especially found, and more distinctly 
manifest. Which abstracted, who would be mad 
enough to live always in the midst of toils and 
dangers ? 

I am speaking of the great. How is it with 
the poets ? Have they no wish for posthumous 
celebrity ? Then, wherefore this ? 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 29 

Behold, O citizens, the sculptured form 

Of aged Ennius, your father's deeds who sung! 

He claims the meed of glory from those whose 
ancestors he had consigned to glory ; and the 
same : — ■ 

No cries at my death — no tears o'er my urn. 
Why ? My life still flits o'er the lips of men. 

But why poets ? Artists have ambition to be cel- 
ebrated after death ; else why did Phidias include 
his image in the shield of Minerva, when not 
allowed to inscribe it ? What of our philosophers? 
Do they not install their names in front of the 
very books where they inculcate the contempt of 
glory? But, if the consent of all men be the 
voice of nature, and all, every where, agree that 
there is something which belongs to those who 
have departed from life, we also are to think in 
the same manner. And if we deem those, whose 
souls are adorned with excelling genius and pre- 
eminent virtues, because they have the best na- 
tures, are the best judges of nature, it is probable, 
since every best man does devote himself most to 
posterity, that there is something which he will 
have the sense of after death. But, as that there 
are gods, we are impressed by nature, yet what 
they are, we are taught by reason ; so, that souls 
3 



30 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS* 

remain after death, we infer from the consent of 
all nations; in what seat they remain, and what 
they are, is to be learned from reason. Ignorance 
upon these points gave rise to the fiction of hell, 
and those terrours, which, with so much reason, 
you appeared to despise. For, as bodies fell upon 
the earth, and were covered with mould, humus, 
whence it was called inhuming, they judged that 
the rest of the life of the dead was passed under 
the earth. This opinion of theirs was the source 
of enormous errours, which the poets have further 
augmented. For a crowded theatre, where are 
timid women and children, is excited at hearing 
such towering verse. 

Lo, I am here, from Acheron arrived ; 

Though scarce could I surmount the arduous pass, 

Through caverns, built of rough, impending rocks, 

Of hugest mass, where dwells the thick, stiff night of hell. 

And so great was the force of an errour, which 
appears at present, at least to me, to have vanished 
altogether, that when they knew the bodies were 
consumed to ashes, yet they feigned such things 
to take place in the regions below, as, without 
bodies, neither can be possible nor intelligible. 
For they could form no conception of souls living 
by themselves ; they sought them a form and 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 31 

features. Hence all the imagery of the dead in 
Homer ; hence the spectres which my friend 
Appius conjures up, in his necromancy; hence, 
in our neighbourhood, the lake Avernus, 

Whence ghosts, at dead of night, appear, 
Forth from the yawning gate of Acheron, 
Defiled with gore, grim shadows of the dead. 

Yet they pretend that these shadows speak ; 
which cannot be done either without a tongue, 
or without a palate, or without the form and con- 
figuration of the cheeks, chest, and lungs. For 
they could see nothing with the mind ; they ad- 
dressed every thing to the eyes. But it is the 
part of great genius to call off the mind from the 
senses, and to abstract the thought from custom. 
And thus, although, I presume others also, in so 
many ages, but as transmitted in extant letters, 
Pherecydes, the Syrian, first said that the souls of 
men are immortal, he claims antiquity certainly ; 
for he existed in the reign of my namesake Tul- 
lus. His disciple, Pythagoras, confirmed this 
opinion very much ; who, having come into Italy 
during the reign of Superbus, occupied that great 
Greece with the honour of his discipline, and even 
with his authority ; and, for many ages after, the 
name of the Pythagoreans flourished to that de- 



32 



THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 



gree. that no others were thought to know any- 
thing. But I return to the ancients. They gave 
no reason, almost, for this opinion of theirs, except 
what was to be explained by numbers and geo- 
metrical figures. Plato, we are told, in order to 
know the Pythagoreans, came to Italy, and there 
made the acquaintance both of Archytas and 
Timeus, besides many others, and learned the 
whole system of Pythagoras ; and, more espe- 
cially, not only embraced his views in regard to 
the immortality of the soul, but also supported 
them with a reason ; which, unless you say other- 
wise, we will pass, and relinquish all this hope of 
immortality. 

Auditor. You will not, sure, desert me, after 
raising my expectations to the height. I would 
rather err, by Hercules, with Plato, for whom I 
know the great regard you have, and whom, from 
your lips, I admire, than to embrace the truth 
with those others. 

Marcus. All hail to your virtue ! For I should 
myself not refuse to wander with such a guide. 
As in most things we doubt, then, shall we also 
of this ? Although of this there can be no doubt, 
for mathematicians prove that the earth, seated at 
the middle of the universe, occupies, in compari- 
son to the embrace of all the heavens, as it were. 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 



33 



a point, which they call centre ; and that the 
nature of the four principles concerned in the 
production of all bodies is such, that they share, 
as it were, among themselves, divided and separate 
moments : the terrene and humid, of their own 
accord and weight, are borne to the earth and sea, 
at equal angles ; the remaining two parts, the one 
igneous, the other airy, as the former are drawn to 
the centre of the universe by gravity and weight, 
so these ascend, in right lines, to the celestial 
spaces, whether it is their nature to seek the 
highest, or because light substances are naturally 
repelled by the more grave. As these things are 
known, it must be evident, that souls, whether 
they be of air, or breathable, or whether igneous, 
when they shall leave the body, will be borne on 
high. If the soul, however, be either a certain 
number, a thought too subtle to be expressed with 
clearness, or that fifth rather nameless than incon- 
ceivable nature, being still much more unsullied 
and pure, they will bear themselves to the greatest 
distance from the earth. The soul, then, is from 
some of these ; nor should so alert a mind lie im- 
mersed either in the heart, or in the brain, or in 
the blood, according to Empedocles. But Dicse- 
archus let us omit, with his contemporary and 
fellow-disciple, Aristoxenus, unquestionably learn- 
3* 



34 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

ed men, one of whom appears never to have even 
lamented that he could not perceive himself to 
have a soul ; the other is so delighted with his 
songs, that he endeavours to transfer them even to 
this question. But harmony from the intervals of 
sound it is possible to understand, the varied com- 
position of which produces even plural harmonies ; 
but the organization of the parts of the body, void 
of mind, what harmony it can afford, I do not see. 
But let this man, learned as he certainly is, leave 
this matter to Aristotle, his master ; and, for him- 
self, let him teach music ; for there is sense in this 
proverb of the Greeks, 

Let each pursue the art he understands. 

But, as for the chance assemblage of little, 
smooth, round bodies, however individual, let us 
reject it altogether ; notwithstanding Democritus 
insists they will compose something warm and 
breathable, that is, a living soul. The soul, then, 
if it be from any of the four principles of all 
things, consists, as I see Panaetius inclined to 
think, of ignited air, and must, of necessity, tend 
upwards. For these two elements have nothing 
prone, and always aspire to the highest. Thus, 
if they are dissipated, it will happen far from the 
earth ; or, if they remain, and retain their own 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 35 

habit, they will then still more necessarily be 
borne to heaven, bursting their way, and shooting 
through this dense and concrete air, which is 
nearest the earth. For the soul is hotter, or, I 
should say, more ardent, than this atmosphere, 
which I have already called dense and concrete. 
This may be known from the fact, that our bod- 
ies, composed of terrene principles, grow heated 
from ardour of mind. It is to be added, that the 
soul will effect its escape from this air so often 
mentioned, more easily, and break through it, by 
dint of its unrivalled velocity ; for there is no celer- 
ity that can compete with the celerity of the soul. 
Which, if it remain unchanged, and like itself, it 
will of necessity dart upwards, so as to penetrate 
and clear its way through all this sky, where 
clouds and storms and winds are collected , which 
is both humid and obscure on account of the ex- 
halations of the earth. When the soul has sur- 
mounted this region, and has encountered and 
reconnoitred a nature like its own, and having 
reached the fires composed of thin air, and solar 
heat, it halts, and at length suspends its impulse of 
ascent. For, having then arrived at a buoyancy 
and heat resembling its own, as if poised by equal 
weights, it settles itself to rest. And this at last is 
its natural seat : where it has found its own like, 



36 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

where wants are unknown, and where it will be 
nourished and supported, in the same manner as 
the stars are supported and nourished. 

And since we are usually inflamed by the torches 
of the body, to almost all cupidities ; which them- 
selves are incited to the more intensity, because 
we emulate those who have those things which 
we covet to have ; we shall be happy indeed, when 
having left the body, we shall be exempt both 
from cupidities and emulations. And as now, 
when freed from cares, we desire to see something 
new, and to change the scene, the same under 
circumstances far more favourable, we shall do 
then ; and shall devote ourselves altogether to the 
contemplation and thorough comprehension of 
things. Both because by nature there exists in 
our minds a sort of insatiable thirst of seeing the 
truth ; and even the features of those places we 
shall arrive at, the more they will facilitate our 
knowledge of celestial objects, the more they will 
kindle our desire of increasing it. For it was this 
beauty, even upon earth, which excited that patri- 
archal and ancestral philosophy, as Theophrastus 
says, and fired it with a passion for knowledge. 
But especially will they enjoy those things, which, 
even while dwelling upon this earth, and surround- 
ed with darkness, they still had exerted all the 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 37 

effort of their mental vision to penetrate and 
fathom. For, if now they think it something 
gained, who have seen the mouth of the Euxine, 
and those straits which were passed by that named 

Argo, because in her conveyed the Argives, 

Men select, explored the ram whose fleece was gold ; 

or they, who have seen those narrows of the 
Atlantic, 

Whose currents fierce cleave Lybia from Europe, 

what a spectacle, must we think, will that be, 
when the whole earth may be surveyed at once ; 
its seat, form and features, both its habitable re- 
gions, and those which, from excess of cold or heat, 
are wholly void of culture ? For even at present, 
we see not indeed, with our eyes, those things 
which we behold, nor is any of the senses in the 
body ; but as physiologists teach, as also physicians, 
who have seen them open, and examined them ; 
there are certain passages perforated, as it were, 
from the seat of the mind to the eyes, to the ears, 
to the nostrils. And thus it often occurs, when 
our minds are absorbed in thought, or embarass- 
ed by the violence of some disease, that with both 
eyes and ears, both open and sound, we neither 
see nor hear; from which it is easily perceived 



38 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

that it is the mind which sees and hears ; and not 
those parts, which are but the windows as it were, 
of the mind ; through which, however, the mind 
gets no intelligence, unless it acts and attends. 
Besides, when with the same mind we compre- 
hend the most unlike things; as colours, taste, 
heat, smell, sound, would the mind ever know 
them through five messengers, were not every 
thing referred to itself, and were it not the sole 
judge of all things? And objects will then present 
themselves, assuredly, much clearer and more 
brightly to the view, when the mind will have 
freedom to transfer itself wherever nature prompts. 
For now, although nature has formed those perfo- 
rations, which communicate from the body to the 
mind, with the most exquisite contrivance, yet 
they are somehow clogged by terrene and concrete 
bodies. But when there shall be nothing but the 
soul, there will be no intervening object to prevent 
it from seeing what every thing is. We might be 
ever so diffuse upon this theme, if the subject re- 
quired it ; how many, how various, how magnifi- 
cent the spectacles the soul is about to have in that 
heavenly scenery. Which when I think upon, I 
cannot but wonder at the strangeness of some 
philosophers, who admire the knowledge of nature, 
and in their ecstacies, give thanks to its inventor 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 39 

and chief, and revere him as a God ; for they say- 
he has been their deliverer from the severest of 
tyrants, everlasting terrour, and daily and nightly 
fear. From what terrour ? from what fear ? What 
old nurse is there so crazy, as to fear those things 
which you, forsooth, would have shuddered at, if 
you had not learned physics ? 

The Acherusian fanes, the depths of Orcus, 
The pale abodes of death, where darkness reigns. 

Should not a philosopher blush to exult that he 
does not fear such things ? and has found them to 
be utterly false ? We can judge by this of their 
natural accuteness, who, but for their learning, 
would have credited these matters ! But they 
have stumbled upon something signal, because 
they have discovered, that when they come to die 
they shall perish totally. Which, though it prove 
so, for they are welcome to have it as they choose, 
what matter of exultation, or glory, they find in it, 
is more than I can see. 

Nor yet, does any thing occur to me, why the 
opinion of Pythagoras and Plato may not be true. 
For though Plato should show me no reason, you 
see my deference for the man, the sole weight of 
his authority would stagger me. But he has 
brought so many reasons, as to prove him anxious 



40 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

to persuade others ; and at least to have persuaded 
himself. 

But numbers are against us ; and pass upon 
souls, as if capitally condemned, the doom of death ; 
nor yet is there any thing else why the eternity of 
souls should strike them as incredible, except that 
they are unable to understand, or comprehend by 
thinking, what the soul is, without the body. As 
if they even understood what it is, in the body, or 
could answer, in case all could be seen in the liv- 
ing man, which is now covered ; whether the 
soul would come forth to view ; or, from its 
great tenuity, would evade the ken of vision. Let 
such as can form no idea of a^soul without a body, 
reflect upon this. They will see what soul they 
understand in the body itself. As for myself, in- 
deed, when I view the nature of the soul, the con- 
ception occurs with much more difficulty, and is 
far less clear, what the soul is in the body, as in a 
foreign home, than what it is, when quit of the 
body, it shall arrive, as it should seem, at its true 
home, in the freedom of heaven. For, unless we 
can understand what that is, which we have nev- 
er seen, certainly we cannot embrace in thought 
even God himself, and the divine mind, free of 
body. 

Dicasarchus, indeed, and Aristoxenus, because 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 41 

the substance and nature of the soul was of diffi- 
cult comprehension, have said there is no soul at 
all. It is, undoubtedly, the greatest of all efforts, 
for the soul itself to see the soul ; and, no doubt, 
this is the import of the precept of Apollo, which 
admonishes that every man should know himself. 
For, I trust, he did not recommend that we should 
know our members, our stature, or features ; nei- 
ther our bodies ; nor, in saying this to thee, do I 
say it to thy body. When, therefore, he says, 
know thyself ) he says, know thy soul. For, the 
body, indeed, is but a mere vessel, as it were, and 
receptacle for the soul. Whatever thy mind acts, 
is acted by thee. Unless this knowledge of the 
soul, then, had been a divine achievement, this 
precept for every mind of profound reach would 
not have been given by a god, that it could know 
itself. But, grant the soul cannot know itself • 
can it know, at least, that it is ? that it moves ? 
whence that argument of Plato is drawn, which is 
developed by Socrates in the Phaedrus, and which 
I have transferred to the sixth book of the Re- 
public. 

" That which, of itself, moves perpetually, is 
something eternal ; but that which merely re- 
ceives and transmits motion, dies of necessity, 
whenever its motion ceases. It is only a being, 

4 



42 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

therefore, that is author of its own motion, that 
never ceases to move, because it never deserts 
itself. Nay, more ; it is a principle of motion ; 
and a principle has no origin, although itself is the 
origin of all things. Itself has no cause ; for if it 
had a cause, it would not be a principle. If it 
had no beginning, therefore, it can have no end. 
A principle, were it extinguished, could neither be 
reproduced by another, nor create itself anew. 
The essential nature of a principle being creatine, 
no principle can be created. Thus, the principle 
of motion can exist only in a self-motive being ; 
and it is impossible that such a being should 
either be born or die ; otherwise, all heaven must 
crumble in ruin, and the whole system of nature 
come to a stand ; for, having lost that motion it 
received at its first impulse, all its properties 
would perish. It being thus evident, that what- 
ever moves itself is eternal, what doubt can there 
be that such is the nature of the human soul ? 
For every thing moved by external motion is in- 
animate. That which lives, has, of its own, an 
internal principle of motion. Such is the nature, 
such is the property of the soul ; and if it is, of all 
others, the only self-motive being, it certainly was 
never born, and is eternal." 

Let all the plebeian philosophers, for so I think 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 43 

the dissenters from Socrates and Plato, and that 
family, are to be held, lay their heads together ; 
not only will they explain nothing, ever, with so 
much elegance, but they will not even understand 
with what a searching penetration this very argu- 
ment is drawn up. Thus the soul perceives itself 
to move ; and, together with this perception, it is 
conscious it moves by its own and no other im- 
pulse, and that it can, by no possibility, be desert- 
ed by itself. And thus its eternity is effected ; 
unless you have detected some weak parts. 

Auditor. Indeed, I am too partial to your in- 
ference, to regret that nothing has even offered 
itself to my mind, that could tend to shake it. 

Marcus. But the faculties, in fine : do you 
think them of less weight ? which declare there is 
something divine in the human soul ; which, if I 
discerned how they could be born, I should see 
how they would perish. For, as to the blood, 
bile, phlegm, bones, muscles, veins, in short, the 
whole figure of the limbs and body, I think I 
could say whence they grew, and how they are 
made. As for the soul, were there nothing in it 
but that we lived through its means, I should 
judge that nature supported the life of man, as it 
does the vine or the tree ; for these also, we say, 
live. So, if the soul of man had nothing but ap- 



44 



THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 



petite and aversion, this also would be common to 
it with the beasts. It has, in the first place, mem- 
ory, and that infinite, of innumerable things ; 
which Plato, indeed, imagines to be the recollec- 
tion of a former life. For, in the book entitled 
Menon, Socrates puts to a certain child some geo- 
metrical questions relating to the mensuration of 
the square. He answers them as would be ex- 
pected of such a boy ; and yet, so easy are the 
interrogations, that, by answering them in grada- 
tion, he arrives at as just a solution as if he had 
learned geometry. From this, Socrates chooses 
to infer, that to learn is no other than to recollect. 
This he enforces, also, more elaborately, in that 
discourse which he held on the very same day on 
which he died. For he teaches, that any one you 
please, no matter how ignorant of every thing he 
may appear, will show, by his answers to a good 
querist, that they contain more than he had learn- 
ed, and that he did but recall things by reminis- 
cence ; and, indeed, that it was wholly impossible 
we should have, from our very childhood, the 
notions, which they call ewoia, of so many and so 
important things, consigned, as it were, and im- 
planted in our minds, unless the soul, before en- 
tering the body, had flourished in the knowledge 
of things. And since there was nothing in exist- 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 45 

ence, as Plato maintains uniformly ; for he allows 
existence to nothing which does but spring up 
and perish, and deems nothing to have real exist- 
ence, that is not always the same ; as what he 
calls ideas, and we, species ; the soul, included in 
the body, could have no access to these ideas ; it 
therefore brought them known. Thus the won- 
der ceases, at the knowledge of so many things. 
It is true, that the mind does not see them plainly, 
when it immigrates so suddenly into an unwonted 
and so confused a dwelling ; but when it has col- 
lected itself, and got recruited, then it knows its 
ideas from remembrance. Thus, to learn is noth- 
ing but to recollect. But as for myself, I am 
struck with even more admiration at memory 
itself. For what is that thing with which we 
remember ? or what is its force ? or whence does 
it spring ? I do not inquire in regard to memory 
so great as Simonides is said to have had, as The- 
odectes, as the ambassador to our Senate from 
Pyrrhus, Cyneas, as Charmadas, of late, as Scep- 
sius Metrodorus, alive so recently, as our friend 
Hortensius; I speak of the common memory of 
men, and especially of men of some serious study, 
or some important branch of practice, the quan- 
tity of whose mind is of difficult estimation, so 
many are the things they have remembered. Do 
4* 



46 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

you ask the drift of this ? I think it tends to the 
understanding what that energy is, and whence. 
It certainly is not from the heart, nor the blood, 
nor the brain, nor from atoms. 

Whether the soul be air, or whether it be fire, I 
do not know ; nor am I ashamed, as those are, to 
confess my ignorance of what I do not know. 
This much, if I could affirm anything of an ob- 
scure matter, whether the soul be air, or whether 
it be fire, I should swear it was divine. For 
what, I beseech you, have you the least suspicion 
that this earth, or this benighted sky, could origi- 
nate or concoct a force of memory so prodigious ? 
If you see not what it is, you see how it acts ; or, 
if not even this, at least you see what it does. 
Then what ? shall we imagine in the mind some 
capacious space, into which we pour the things 
we jemember, as into a reservoir ? That, no 
doubt, would be too absurd. For, where is the 
space ? or, how is such a shape of the mind con- 
ceivable ? or, what capacity so vast exists at all ? 
Then shall we suppose the mind impressed like 
wax, and memory the vestiges of things printed 
on the mind ? What vestiges can there be of 
words ? nay, what even of things ? or what mag- 
nitude so immeasurable as to admit the effigies of 
so many of both? Then what is that force, at 



CONTEMPT OP DEATH. 47 

length, which investigates the hidden, which has 
the name of invention, and the genius of discov- 
ery? Springs it, think you, from this terrene, 
mortal, fragile nature ? Either his, who first gave 
things their names, which appeared to Pythagoras 
a trait of consummate wisdom ? or who assembled 
scattered men, and taught them to live in society? 
or who determined the sounds of the human voice, 
whiffi appeared infinite, by a few notes of letters ? 
or who traced the course of the planets, with their 
retrogressions and stations ? All great ; also their 
predecessors, the inventors of agriculture, manu- 
factures, architecture, the culture of civil life, the 
defence against noxious inroads and animals. 
Thus humanized and refined by their discoveries, 
we have glided from the arts of necessity to those 
of more elegance. For, not only a great delight 
for the ear has been gained by the discovered 
variety and nature of modulated sounds, but we 
look up at the stars, both those which are fixed 
in their stations, and those which wander, not in 
fact, but in name. The man, who saw in his 
mind these revolutions and motions, has shown us 
that his soul was similar to that mind who fash- 
ioned them in heaven. For, when Archimedes 
wrought into a sphere the motions of the sun, 
moon, and five planets, he accomplished the same 



48 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

thing with that god, who, in the Timaeus of Plato, 
erected the universe, that the turning of one axis 
should govern motions most unlike in tardiness 
and celerity of revolution ; which, if, in this uni- 
verse, it is only the hand of the Deity that can 
effect, so, neither in a sphere could Archimedes 
have imitated the same motions without a divine 
genius. Indeed, not even these more known and 
brilliant studies appear to me to want a divine 
impulse, that I should think either the poet to 
pour the grave and full-resounding verse, without 
some celestial instinct of mind, or eloquence with- 
out a certain controlling force to flow, redundant 
with sonorous words, and exuberant with sense. 

Philosophy, in truth, the mother of all arts, 
what else is it, if not, as Plato says, the gift ? as I, 
the invention of the gods ? She taught us, in the 
first place, to worship them ; and then the rights 
of men, which are the basis of human society ; 
then moderation and greatness of soul. Moreover, 
she dispelled darkness as from the eyes of the 
mind, that we might see all things, above, below, 
first, last, intermediate. Absolutely, this force 
appears divine to me, which effects so many 
things, and so great. For, what is the memory 
of so many things and words? what, moreover, 
invention ? Certainly something greater than 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 49 

which nothing is conceivable even in God. For 
I do not think the gods delighted with ambrosia, 
or nectar, or youth to serve the cup ; nor listen 
to Homer, who, says Ganymede, was abducted to 
heaven by the gods, to minister the beverage of 
Jove. It was not a just cause why so great an 
injury should be done Laomedon. Homer fabled 
these fictions, and transferred human traits to the 
gods ; I would rather he had the divine to us. 
But what are divine ? To exist, to know, to in- 
vent, to remember. Therefore, the soul, as I say, 
is divine ; as Euripides dares to say, is a god ; 
and, indeed, if god be either air or fire, the same 
is the soul of man. For, as that celestial nature is 
void both of earth and humidity, so the human 
soul partakes of neither of these elements. But if 
there is some fifth nature, first suggested by Aris- 
totle, this should constitute that, both of the gods 
and of souls. Pursuant to this opinion, we have 
expressed our sentiments in the Consolation in 
these very words: "No origin of souls can be 
found upon earth ; for there is nothing terrestrial 
in them, nothing which resembles earth. Nor 
have souls the least affinity with water, air, or 
fire, no more than those elements have with mem- 
ory, mind, or thought; than they can remember 
the past, discover the future, or provide for the 



50 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

present : faculties that claim to be called divine, 
and which can never be shown to have come to 
man from any other source but from God. Thus, 
the soul is a nature by itself, wholly different from 
these familiar natures, made for our use. There- 
fore, that nature, in us, which thinks, which 
knows, and is full of life, whatever it may be in 
itself, is celestial and divine, and necessarily, for 
that reason, eternal. God himself, so far as we 
comprehend him, can be represented in no other 
manner than as a free spirit, detached from all 
matter, perceiving and moving all things, and 
himself in perpetual action. Of this kind, and 
from this nature, is the human soul." Then, 
where resides, or what is, this universal mind? 
Where is thy own ? or what ? Canst thou tell ? 
Though I should not have all I could wish essen- 
tial to understanding, may I not, with your leave, 
make use of what I have ? The soul, by no exer- 
tion of effort, can see itself. But the soul, like 
the eye, not seeing itself, can discern other things. 
But the soul does not see, even the least of all, its 
own form. Perhaps not ; although that also. But 
let us leave it. Its force, its sagacity, memory, 
motion, celerity, it certainly sees. These are 
great, these are divine, these are eternal. "What 
its face may be, or where it dwells, is not even to 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 51 

be inquired. As, when we see, in the first place, 
the beautiful splendour of the heavens, and then 
such celerity of revolution as we are unable to 
follow in thought, next the alternation of days and 
nights, with the quadruple change of seasons, 
adapted to the maturation of fruits and invigora- 
tion of bodies ; and the sun, guide, and governour 
of them all ; the moon, with waxing and waning 
light, marking, as with notes, the holidays ; and 
now, in the same zodiac, distributed in twelve 
parts, the five planets, wending their way, with 
the most uniform constancy, through the same 
course, with mutually discrepant motions ; and the 
face of the nocturnal sky, on every side adorned 
with stars ; now the globe of the earth, emerging 
out of the sea, fixed at the central point of the 
whole universe, with two zones, remote from each 
other, inhabited and cultivated ; one of them, 
which we occupy, placed under the north pole 
and the seven stars, 

Whence Boreas, blustering, piles the snow-drift chill; 

the other austral unknown to us, which the Greeks 
call oiVTiz&ova ; the remaining parts uncultured, 
stiffened with cold, or parched with heat. But 
this, where we inhabit, never in due season fails, 



52 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

The sky to soften, the trees to spread their foliage, 
The gladdening vine, in leafy growth, to flourish, 
Branches to curve, exuberant with fruitage, 
The seeded fields to wave the golden harvests, 
Fountains to gush, the meads to mantle verdure, 
All things to bloom. 

Then multitude of cattle, part for food, part for 
culture of the fields, part for carriage, part for 
clothing ; and man himself, as the contemplator 
of heaven and its Author, the worshipper of his 
Deity ; with all lands and seas obedient to the 
utility of man. When we behold these things, 
then, and others innumerable, can we doubt there 
presides over this either a maker, if these things 
were created, as Plato thinks, or, if they have 
been always, as Aristotle judges, some ruler of so 
vast a work, of a scene so grand ? So, the soul 
of man, although you do not see it, as you do not 
see God, yet, as from his works you acknowledge 
God, so from memory, from invention, from the 
celerity of motion, from all the beauty of virtue, 
do thou acknowledge the divine nature of the 
soul. Then, where does it reside ? I believe in 
the head, truly ; and could say why I believe it ; 
but another time. At present, wherever its place, 
it certainly, at least, resides in thee. What is its 
nature ? I think appropriate, and its own. But, 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 53 

suppose it igneous — suppose it respirable ; it's 
nothing to what we have in hand. Look only 
at this : as you know God, though a stranger 
both to his abode and his features, so ought thy 
soul to be known to thee, even though ignorant 
both of its seat and its form. But, in forming our 
judgment of what the soul is, if not utterly blind 
in physics, we cannot doubt but it has nothing 
mixed, nothing concrete, nothing coupled, nothing 
conjoined, nothing double ; which being premised, 
certainly it can neither be decomposed, nor divid- 
ed, nor rent asunder, nor pulled to pieces, nor, 
therefore, be destroyed. For destruction implies 
a sort of severance, and separation, and disjunction 
of those parts, which, before destroyed, were held 
together by some mode of cement. 

Induced by these and similar reasons, Socrates, 
when upon trial for life, neither employed an ad- 
vocate, nor was suppliant to the judges, but exhib- 
ited a contumacious independence, flowing from 
greatness of soul, not from pride ; and upon the 
last day of his life, discoursed largely upon this 
very theme ; and a few days previous, when he 
might easily have made his escape from prison, he 
chose not ; and when he already held in his hand, 
almost, that deathful cup, he spoke in such a man- 
ner, that he appeared not to be thrust away to 
5 



54 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

death; but to ascend into heaven. For thus he 
judged, and thus he inculcated : there are two 
ways and divergent courses for souls departing 
from the body. For they who have contaminated 
themselves with human vices, and abandoned 
themselves to their passions, and, thus blinded, 
have sullied themselves with the frauds and ex- 
cesses of private life, or, by violating the republic, 
have incurred the taint of inexpiable guilt, such 
will have to travel some by-road, sequestered from 
the assembly of the gods. But they who have 
kept their integrity and purity, who have escaped 
the contagion of the body, and have always held 
themselves above it, and, in human bodies, have 
imitated the life of the gods ; for these, an easy 
return lies open to their divine presence, from 
which they had taken departure. Thus he com- 
memorated, like the dying swans, who, not with- 
out cause, are consecrated to Apollo, since he ap- 
pears to have endowed them with a spirit of divin- 
ation, by which, seeing the great good there is in 
death, they welcome it with songs, and gladly 
die. So ought it to be done by all the good and 
wise. Neither, indeed, would there be a doubt 
with any one of this, unless the same thing hap- 
pened to us when thinking earnestly upon the 
soul ; which frequently occurs to those who strain 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 55 

their eyes to observe an eclipse of the sun, that 
they lose the sight altogether. Thus, the sight 
of the mind, by viewing itself, sometimes becomes 
dazzled ; and we consequently lose the vigour of 
contemplation. Thus, doubting, looking about, 
hesitating, buffeted by many scruples, as tossed in 
a ship in some boundless ocean, our discourse has 
traced its desultory voyage ; but, thus far, ancient, 
and from the Greeks. Moreover, Cato so departed 
from life as if he rejoiced he had found a motive 
for dying ; for the god who rules within forbids us 
to emigrate without his leave. But when God 
himself shall grant us a just cause, as then to Soc- 
rates, now to Cato, often to many, depend upon it, 
so Heaven help me, the wise man will depart 
exulting from these dull shades into that light. 
Nor yet will he force the bonds of his prison; 
for the laws forbid ; but, as if freed by the magis- 
trate, or some lawful authority, so released by the 
call or warrant of God, he will go his way. For, 
according to the same authority, the whole life of 
philosophy is but the study of death. For, what 
else is it, when we withdraw the mind from pleas- 
ure, that is, from the body ? when from the care 
of money, the handmaid and slave of the body? 
when from the republic ? when from all business ? 
then, I say, what is it we do but summon the 



56 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

soul to itself, force it to remain at home, and ab- 
stract it especially from the body ? But, to se- 
quester the soul from the body is nothing else ? 
then, than learning how to die. Wherefore, let 
us study this lesson, trust me, and let us disjoin 
ourselves from the body ; that is, let us accustom 
ourselves to die. This, while we remain up- 
on earth, will be similar to that celestial life ; 
and when, freed from these bonds, we shall be 
borne thither, the course of souls will be less re- 
tarded. For, such as have always worn the fetters 
of the body, even when set at liberty, move more 
tardily, as those do, who, for many years, have 
been bound with iron. For, this life is, indeed^ 
the true death, which I could lament, if I chose. 

Auditor. You have lamented sufficiently, I 
think, in the Consolation. For, as I read it, I 
feel more than half willing to depart from these 
scenes; but now, with such prospects before us, 
still much more. 

Marcus. The time will come, and indeed 
quickly; and whether you shall recoil, or press 
forward ; for time flies. But, so far is death from 
being, as you thought lately, an evil, that I not 
only fear there is nothing else certain to be not 
an evil to man, but even that there is nothing 
else that is good ; if, indeed, we are either to be 
gods ourselves, or always to dwell with the gods. 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 57 

Auditor. What matters it ? for there are some 
present, who have little faith in these things. 

Marcus. But I will never so let you off from 
this discourse, that death, upon any hypothesis, 
can appear to you an evil. 

Auditor. How can it, when I know all you 
have been saying? 

Marcus. How can it, dost ask? The gain- 
sayers are upon us in swarms ; not Epicureans 
only, — whom, for my own part, I don't despise, 
but, I know not how it happens, every man of 
much learning does, — but even my heart's de- 
light, Dicaearchus, has argued profoundly and 
strenuously against this immortality. For he 
wrote three books, which are called Lesbiacs, 
because the discourse is held at Mytilene, where 
he endeavours to demonstrate that souls are mor- 
tal. But the Stoics, with more liberality, grant 
us the loan of a life perhaps the length of the 
crow's. They say souls will remain a long time, 
but not always. Would you like to hear, then,, 
why, if it be so, death is not an evil ? 

Auditor. As you please ; but nobody shall per- 
suade me from immortality. 

Marcus. I like that very much ; but we ought 
to be too confident of nothing ; for we are often 
shaken by arguments enforced with ability. We 



58 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

lose ground and change opinion even in much 
clearer matters ; for there is some obscurity in 
these. Then, if such a thing should happen, 
let us be armed. 

Auditor. With all my heart, certainly. But I 
will provide that it shall not happen. 

Marcus. Is there anything, then, to prevent 
us from dismissing our friends the Stoics ? I refer 
to those who say that souls remain after departure 
from the body, but not forever. 

Auditor. Let them depart, of course, who un- 
dertake almost the only great difficulty in all this 
cause, that souls can remain without body ; while 
that which is not only of easy belief, but a conse- 
quence of what they defend, they refuse to admit : 
that souls, after a long survival of the body, may 
remain always. 

Marcus. You reprehend well ; and the case 
stands as you have stated. Are we to listen, 
then, to Pansetius, dissenting from his favourite 
Plato ? An author he every where calls the di- 
vine, the wisest, the holiest of men, the Homer 
of philosophers. This only opinion of his, as to 
the immortality of the soul, he disapproves. For 
he asserts, what nobody denies, that whatever is 
born, dies. But souls are born, as declared by the 
resemblance of progeny to parents ; which is ap- 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 59 

parent not less in the genius than in the body. 
And he adduces another reason : There is nothing, 
which feels pain, but may be sick ; and whatever 
is liable to sickness, is also fated to die. Souls 
grieve ; therefore, they die. These may be re- 
futed. For it is the part of ignorance, when the 
question relates to the immortality of souls, to 
predicate of the intellect, which is always void of 
every turbid motion, what is only to be said of 
those parts where sorrow, anger, and cupidity 
reside, which he, against whom these objections 
are brought, thinks to be separate and distinct 
from the mind. And as to similitude, it is more 
apparent in the brutes, whose souls are void of 
reason. The resemblance of men, however, is 
most observable in the body ; and as to the mind, 
much depends on the body it happens to be lodged 
in. For many things are seated in the body, 
which sharpen the mind — many which blunt it. 
Indeed, it is asserted by Aristotle, that all men of 
genius are melancholy ; and I therefore regret the 
less, that my parts are rather tardy. He enumer- 
ates many, and, as if the thing were admitted, 
gives the reason why it is so. Therefore, if such 
be the influence of what is engendered in the 
body upon the habit of the mind, and such is the 
source of resemblance, whatever may be its cause, 



60 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

he has failed to show why a similarity of mind 
should necessarily be born. I wish Pansetius 
could be present. He lived with Africanus. I 
would inquire of him which of his family the 
grandson of the brother of Africanus resembled ; 
in person, the very image of his father ; in life, so 
like to all the most abandoned of men, that he 
might easily pass for the worst ; but he was cop- 
ied, however, in the grandson of Publius Crassus, 
a man without superior, whether for wisdom, elo- 
quence, or rank ; as also in the sons and grandsons 
of many other celebrated men, whose names it is 
not material to mention. But what are we doing ? 
Have we forgotten, that, having said enough upon 
the soul's eternity, it was proposed to make it ap- 
pear, that, even if the soul be mortal, there is no 
evil in death ? 

Auditor. I did, indeed, remember it ; but I 
cheerfully allowed you to wander from the sub- 
ject, so long as you discoursed upon immortality. 

Marcus. I see thou hast exalted views, and 
dost wish to go to heaven. 

Auditor. I hope that good fortune may be our 
destiny. But make it, as they would have it, that 
souls do not remain after death ; in that case, I 
see we are deprived of the hope of a more happy 
life. 

Marcus. But, what evil is the result of that 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 61 

opinion ? For, suppose the body and soul to per- 
ish together ; is there any pain, or any sense at 
all, in the body after death? Nobody has said 
that, although Epicurus charges it upon Democri- 
tus. The Democritians deny it. Neither in the 
mind, then, of course, is there any sense remain- 
ing. For itself is nowhere. Then where is evil ? 
because there is nothing third. Is it because the 
departure of life from the body is not effected 
without pain? Though I believed it were so, 
how trifling it is! and I think it false, and, for 
the most part, that it happens without sense, 
sometimes even with pleasure ; and the whole 
matter a nothing ; for it passes in a point of time. 

Auditor. This is the pang, or rather the tor- 
ture : the parting from all those things which are 
good in life. 

Marcus. Take care, lest it might be said, with 
more truth, from evils. But where is the necessi- 
ty, when my business is to show that after death 
we are not unhappy, to make even life more un- 
happy by deploring it? This we have done in 
that book, in which we consoled ourselves as 
much as we could. Death withdraws us from 
evils, then, and not from good, if we would seek 
the truth. Indeed, this was urged so eloquently 
by Hegesias of Cyrene, that he is said to have 
been prohibited by king Ptolemy from reciting his 



62 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

work in the schools 3 because, after hearing it 7 
many had put themselves to death. There is, 
besides, an epigram of Callimachus, aimed at Cle- 
ombrotus of Ambracia, which says, that when 
nothing adverse had befallen him, he had thrown 
himself from a wall into the sea, after reading the 
book of Plato. But the book of Hegesias I men- 
tioned is entitled AnoxaQTegav, because a certain 
person, going out of life by abstinence from food, 
is dissuaded by his friends ; in answering them, 
he enumerates the troubles of life. I could do the 
same, though not so far as he went ; for he 
thought it expedient for no man at all to continue 
in life. I omit others. Is it expedient even for 
us ? Deprived as we are both of public and do- 
mestic solaces and ornaments, had we died before, 
death would certainly have withdrawn us from 
evils, and not from goods. Admit, however, there 
is somebody who has nothing to complain of, who 
has never been wounded by fortune. That hon- 
oured Metellus, with his four sons ; but Priam had 
fifty, seventeen of whom by his lawful wife. 
Fortune had the same power over both, but used 
it with the one. For many sons and daughters, 
grandsons and granddaughters, followed the re- 
mains of Metellus to the pyre ; Priam ; bereft of 
so great a progeny, when he had fled to the altar 
for refuge, was slain by the hand of the enemy. 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 63 

Had he fallen with his sons alive ; and his king- 
dom in safety, 

"'Standing the glory of barbaric wealth, 
The vaulted ceilings, rich with fret-work gilt," 

would he, think you, have departed from goods or 
from evils ? As it appeared then, certainly from 
goods. But, doubtless, nothing could have befall- 
en him better ; and these tragic strains would not 
have been sung so touchingly. 

■" Devouring flames I've seen consume all these, 
And dying Priam, by the sword transpierced, 
DefiliDg with his blood Jove's altar." 

As if, at that time, this catastrophe, or anything 
else, could really have befallen him better. Be- 
cause, had he died before, he would have escaped 
the event however ; but at this period he escaped 
from the sense of evils. Our friend Pompey, 
when he had been dangerously sick at Naples, 
got better. The Neapolitans crowned them- 
selves ; the Puteolians — never doubt it — also 
had their public rejoicings in mass, with the 
neighbouring towns. An idle affair, no doubt, and 
Greekish ; but still auspicious. Then, if he had 
met his death at that epoch, would he have de- 
parted from good things, or from evils ? Certainly 
from miseries. For he would not have made war 



/ 



64 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

with his father-in-law ; he would not have taken 
up arms unprepared ; he would not have left his 
home ; he would not have fled out of Italy ; he 
would not, having lost his army, have fallen naked 
into the hands and upon the sword of slaves ; his 
children would not have been deplored; all his 
fortunes would not have been possessed by the 
victors. He, who, had he died then, would have 
fallen in the midst of the most ample fortunes, by 
the propagation of life, how many, how great, 
how incredible, were the calamities he supped to 
the dregs ! Such things are escaped by death, 
even if they should not happen ; yet, because they 
can happen. But men do not think they can 
happen to them ; every one hopes for himself the 
fortune of Metellus. As if more were fortunate 
than unhappy, or anything were certain in human 
affairs ; or it were more prudent to hope than to 
fear. But, let this point itself be yielded : men 
are deprived by death of good things ; does it fol- 
low, then, that the dead want the enjoyments of 
life ? and this is misery ? Certainly they must 
say this. How can he want anything, who him- 
self is not ? for the very name of wanting is sad, 
because it has this import : he had, he has not ; 
he desires, he requires, he needs. These, I think, 
are the discomforts of the wanter. He wants 
eyes. Blindness is odious j children, bereave- 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 65 

merit. This has weight with the living ; but 
not one of the dead wants, not to say the enjoy- 
ments of life, but, indeed, not even life itself. I 
speak of the dead who are annihilated. But we 
in existence, do we want either horns or feathers ? 
Will there be one who will say it? Certainly 
not. Why so ? Because, when thou hast not 
what neither use nor nature has rendered apt for 
thee, thou dost not want, though perfectly aware 
thou hast it not. This argument is to be urged 
again and again : that once settled, as to which 
there can be no doubt, that, if souls are mortal, 
the destruction of death is so absolute, as to leave 
not the slightest suspicion of sense. Therefore, 
this being thoroughly established and fixed, we 
are to sift for a perfect knowledge of what it is to 
want, that no errour may shelter itself in the 
word. Then, to want has this import : to need 
what you wish to have. For a wish is implied 
in wanting, unless when used, as in fever, in an- 
other sense of the word. For, to want is thus 
said in a different sense, when you have not a 
thing, and, though conscious you have it not, you 
are very willing to dispense with having it. For, 
to want is not attributable to evil, and, if it were, 
would be no source of regret. To want good is 
said; and this want is an evil. But, even the 
6 



66 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

living does not want good, unless he needs it ; 
yet, in a living man, it is intelligible to say he 
wants a kingdom ; but, as applied to thee, it could 
not be said with perfect propriety. It might have 
been said of Tarquin, when he had been expelled 
from the kingdom. But, in regard to the dead, it 
cannot even be understood. For to want belongs 
to a sentient being. But there is no feeling in the 
dead ; then, to want is, of course, not in the power 
of the dead. Although what need is there of phi- 
losophizing in regard to this, when we see the 
matter to require not much philosophy? How 
often not only our commanders, but whole armies, 
have marched, with emulation, upon inevitable 
death ! which, if feared at all, neither Lucius Bru- 
tus would have fallen in battle, to prevent the 
return of the tyrant he had expelled, nor, combat- 
ing with the Latins, would Deems, the father, 
with the Tuscans, the son, with Pyrrhus, the 
grandson, have offered themselves to the spears 
of the enemy ; nor would Spain, in one war, have 
seen two Scipios falling for country ; Cannae, 
Paulus and Geminus ; Venusia, Marcellus ; the 
Latins, Albinus ; the Lucanians, Gracchus : are 
any of these unhappy to-day? Nay; after the 
last breath, not even then ; nor, indeed, can any 
one bereft of sense be unhappy. But it is an 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 67 

odious thing, of itself, to be without sense ; odious, 
if this were to want it. But, when it is clear there 
can be nothing in him, who himself is nothing, 
what can there be odious in him who neither 
wants nor feels ? Although this is too much ; but 
it is urged, because in this consists the whole con- 
traction of mind from the fear of death. For, 
whoever shall see a thing clearer than light, the 
body and soul consumed, the whole living being 
extinct, and sunk in total destruction, and the 
animal, which has been, to have become nothing, 
he will plainly perceive there is no difference be- 
tween the Hippocentaur, which has never been, 
and king Agamemnon ; and that Marcus Camil- 
lus makes no more account of this civil war, than, 
when he was alive, I did of the capture of Rome. 
Then why would both Oamillus have grieved, if 
he had thought in about three hundred and fifty 
years these events would happen, and I should 
grieve, if I were to think that in ten thousand 
years some nation would get possession of this 
city? Because, so great is the love of country, 
that we measure it, not by our own consciousness, 
but its own safety. Therefore, death will not 
deter the wise man — since from uncertain casual- 
ties it daily impends, and, from the brevity of life, 
i^-ver can be far off — from at all times consulting 



68 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS* 

the good of his country and friends ; and posterity 
itself, of which he is to have no sense, he will 
consider as pertaining to him. Wherefore, even 
the man who deems the soul mortal may build for 
eternity ; not through devotion to glory, which he 
is to have no sense of, but to virtue, which is ne- 
cessarily followed by glory, even if thou hast not 
sought it. But this, in truth, is the order of na- 
ture, that as our birth is the entrance of all things 
for us, so death is the exit ; as before we saw the 
light nothing belonged to us, so nothing will be- 
long to us after the scene is closed. Then, what 
evil can there be in death, which belongs neither 
to the dead nor the living, since the one he does 
not touch, the others are extinct ? They who 
make light of it, as they think, say it exactly re- 
sembles sleep ; as if, really, any one would consent 
to live ninety years, on condition that, having 
completed sixty, he should sleep the rest. Not 
the swine even would do it, — man out of the 
question. But Endymion, if we trust fables, I 
know not when, fell asleep on Latmos, a moun- 
tain of Oaria. I believe he is not waked up yet. 
Then, dost imagine he cares when the moon 
labours, who put him asleep, as it is thought, 
that she might kiss him slumbering ? But what 
should he care, who not even feels it ? Thou 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 



69 



hast sleep, the image of death, and dost wear it 
daily ; wilt thou doubt there is no sense in death, 
when thou seest there is none in its resemblance ? 
Away, then, with that impertinence, stamped al- 
most with dotage, that it is hard to die before the 
time. What time, at length ? Nature's ? But 
nature granted the loan of it, as of money, with- 
out a day prefixed ; then what hast thou to com- 
plain of, if she require her due when she please ? 
for it was accepted by thee on this condition. 
The very same, should a little child die, think it 
to be borne with calmness ; if in the cradle, in- 
deed, not even to be complained of. But, here 
nature exacts with more rigour what she had 
granted. He had not tasted, they say, the sweet- 
ness of life ; but this other already flattered him- 
self with brilliant fortunes, and had begun to 
enjoy them. But even this, in other things, is 
thought better ; to have part rather than none : 
why is it otherwise in life ? Though Callima- 
chus has said, not badly, Priam ivept much often- 
er than Troilus. 

Auditor, Still, however, they are deemed for- 
tunate, who die at the extreme of age, 

Marcus, Why ? 

Auditor. I presume, because no life could be 
pleasanter than that which is long enjoyed ; for 
6* 



70 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

nothing to man is sweeter than prudence, which? 
though age carry off the rest, it is sure to bring in 
exchange. 

Marcus. But, what age is long ? or what is 
there at all else that is long to man? Boys so 
lately, youths but yesterday, has not old age 
tracked us in pursuit, and seized us by surprise 
in mid course ? But, having nothing beyond, we 
think this long* All those things, as they fall out 
to any, are reputed long or short, in proportion to 
life. At the river Hypanis, which flows into the 
Euxine, from a part of Europe, certain little in- 
sects, Aristotle says, are born to live but a day. 
Then, one of these, that dies at two afternoon, 
dies well-advanced in life ; but he that dies at 
sunset, especially about the summer solstice, de- 
crepit. Compare our longest age with eternity : 
we should be found in much the same brevity 
with these little insects. Then, let us despise all 
such impertinences ; for what lighter name can I 
gi\re to this levity? and let us place all the stress 
of living well in vigour of mind and greatness of 
soul, in the contempt and disdain of all human 
things, and in every virtue. For, in truth, we are 
now enervated by the most troublesome reflec- 
tions ; so that, should death approach before we 
have realized the promises of Chaldseans, we ap- 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 71 

pear to have been stripped of great fortunes, bub- 
bled, and deserted. Because, if we are racked 
and tortured, with minds suspended between ex- 
pectation and desire, good heavens ! what a pleas- 
ant journey that should appear, at the end of 
which not a care will be left, not an anxious 
thought ! How Theramenes delights me ! What 
loftiness of soul ! For, though we weep as we 
read, that illustrious man does not die unhappily ; 
who, thrust into prison by order of the thirty 
tyrants, having swallowed the poison as if he 
thirsted, threw out the rest, so as to make it re- 
sound : smiling at that sound, he said, I" drink this 
to the handsome Critias^ who had pursued him 
with the most implacable bitterness. For the 
Greeks, at their banquets, have the custom of 
naming the person to whom they are about to 
pass the cup. Unrivalled man ! he sported with 
his latest breath, when the death he had within 
him had already seized his vitals. And that au- 
gury of death was true to the man he had pledged ; 
it overtook him shortly after. Who would admire 
this composure of the most sublime of souls, in the 
very act of death, if he judged that death was 
evil? A few years after, Socrates visited the 
same prison, and the same cup, through the same 
guilt of the judges, as of the tyrants, Theramenes. 



72 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Then, what was the speech which Plato repre- 
sents him to have held in the presence of the 
judges, already sentenced to death? 

" I am filled with hope, O judges, it has hap- 
pened fortunately for me, that I am sentenced to 
die • for one of two things is inevitable ; either all 
the senses will be extinguished altogether by 
death ; or it will result in a migration from this 
scene to a certain other place. Wherefore, wheth- 
er, with extinction of sense, death resemble that 
sound sleep, which, sometimes without even a 
dream, affords the most tranquil rest ; what gain 
to die ! or, how many days can be found, that are 
preferable to such a night ? or, who is happier than 
I, should all the perpetuity of future time await 
me thus ? But, if that be true, which some as- 
sert, that death transports us to regions inhabited 
by those who have departed from life, how much 
more happy, to find myself escaped from those 
who wish to be numbered with reputed judges, 
to the presence of such as may rightfully claim 
that name — Minos, Rhadamanthus, iEacus, 
Triptolemus — and join the society of those 
who have lived with justice and honour ! Can 
such a change of scene appear a small privilege 
to you ? or can you esteem it a slight advantage, 
that I may hold discourse with Orpheus, Homer, 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 73 

Hesiod ? Indeed, if it were possible, I could wish 
to die often, to enjoy the circle I have mentioned. 
With what a glow of delight should I make the 
acquaintance of Palamedes, of Ajax, of others, 
whose throats have felt the knife of iniquitous 
judgments ! Besides, I should taste the prudence 
of the powerful prince, who led his countless hosts 
to Troy ; of Ulysses also ; of Sisyphus ; nor yet, 
though we touch the perilous themes I have hand- 
led here, should I incur the penalty of death. 
But, such of you, O judges, as have absolved me, 
fear ye not to die ; for neither can aught of evil 
touch any good man, whether living or dead, nor 
will his interests be ever neglected by the immor- 
tal gods. Nor has this crisis befallen even myself 
fortuitously ; nor have I cause of resentment 
against either those who accused me, or those 
who have condemned, except that they believed 
they were doing me hurt." And thus far in this 
manner. But the close is insurpassable. " But 
now it is time that I should go hence, that I may 
die ; and for you, to the business of life. But 
which of the two is better, is known to the im- 
mortal gods ; for, indeed, I think that no man 
knows. " 

Indeed, I would not a little rather have this 
soul than the fortunes of all those who sat in judg- 



74 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

ment upon it. Although what he says the gods 
only knew, which was better, that he knows him- 
self; for he had said before. But, to his maxim, 
that he should affirm nothing, he holds to the last. 
Meanwhile, let us hold that we should deem 
nothing an evil^ which by nature is assigned to 
all ; and let us understand, that, if death be an 
evil, it is an everlasting evil. For, of unhappy 
life, death appears to be the end ; but, if death be 
unhappy, it can have no end. But, why do I 
commemorate Socrates or Theramenes, men of 
note for the glory of wisdom and virtue, when a 
certain Lacedaemonian, even whose name is not 
transmitted, so exceedingly despised death, that 
when he Avas led forth to it, condemned by the 
Ephori, and bore a look of hilarity and gladness, 
and a certain enemy had said to him, " Dost thou 
despise the laws of Lycurgus ? " answered, " On 
the contrary, I owe him the warmest thanks, for 
having destined me to a punishment, which I can 
pay without borrowing and usury ? " O, man wor- 
thy of Sparta ! that he certainly appears to me, 
who had so great a soul, to have been condemned 
innocent. Such, . innumerable, our city has pro- 
duced. But, why name leaders and chiefs, when 
Cato writes, that legions have often marched with 
alacrity to that place, whence they thought they 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 75 

were not to return ? With equal spirit, the Lace- 
daemonians fell at Thermopylae, in whose behalf 
Simonides, 

Stranger, at Sparta tell, thou saw'st us prostrate here, 
Our country's sacred laws observing to the last. 

What says their leader, Leonidas ? " March with 
a firm breast, Lacedcemonians : to-day perhaps we 
shall sup in helL" This was a brave people, 
while the laws of Lycurgus were in vigour : one 
of whom, when a Persian enemy, in a parley, had 
boastingly said, " You will not see the sun, for 
the multitude of arrows and javelins," " Then ice 
shall fight in the shade" was the reply. These 
were the men. What shall we think of the Spar- 
tan matron, who, having sent her son to battle, 
and had heard that he was slain, said, c: I raised 
him on purpose, that there might be, who would 
not hesitate to lay down life for country ? " So 
be it. The Spartans were brave and m^sed. 
The force of public discipline is great. What ! 
shall we not admire Theodorus, a philosopher of 
Cyrefte, by no means unknown to fame, who, 
when threatened with crucifixion by king Lysi- 
maclms, replied, " Reserve, may it please you, 
those threats of horrour for these thy minions, 
clothed in purple : for, truly, it is nothing to The- 



76 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

odorus, whether he rots on the ground or aloft? " 
I am reminded, by this saying of his, that I should 
think something is to be said on the subject of 
inhumation and sepulture ; not a difficult matter, 
especially with the knowledge of what has been 
said already of the absence of all sensation. 
Meanwhile, what Socrates thought upon this 
point is indicated in that book in which he dies, 
of which we have said so much already. For, 
when he had discoursed on the immortality of the 
soul, and the time for dying was now pressing on, 
being asked by Crito in what manner he would 
choose to be buried, u Indeed, my friends," he 
said, " I have expended much labour in vain ; for 
I have not convinced our friend Crito that I am 
about to take my flight from this place, and shall 
leave nothing of myself behind. But still, Crito, 
if you can overtake me, or should fall in with me 
any where, bury me as you please ; but, trust me, 
when I shall part hence, not one of you will reach 
me." Truly excellent this ; for he both leaves 
his friend at discretion, and shows that, as for 
himself, he cares nothing at all about this whole 
affair. Diogenes, more rough, following, it is 
true, the same sentiment, but, as a cynic, more 
harshly, ordered himself to be thrown out unbur- 
ied. "What!" said his friends, "to the birds 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 77 

wad beasts of prey?" " No, indeed ," said he; 
u but , put a staff near me, that I may drive them 
off with." " i3W can you ? " said they ; u for you 
will not feel." " Then, what harm to me in the 
rending of wild animals, feeling nothing ? " This 
of Anaxagoras is excellent, who, when about to die 
at Lampsacus, his friends inquiring whether, if 
anything happened to him, he would choose to be 
carried to Clazomenae, his country, " It is not at 
all necessary " he said ; " for the self same road is 
open every where to the shades below ." And, in 
regard to the whole subject of interment, this one 
point is to be kept in view, that, whether the soul 
dies or survives, it relates to the body. But, in 
the body there is no sense, it is plain, whether 
the soul is extinct, or escaped. But all things 
abound with errours. Achilles drags Hector, fast- 
ened to his car; — no doubt, he thinks Hector 
gets lacerated, and feels it; — and thus gluts his 
revenge ; at least, as it appeared to him. But she 
grieves as if it were the bitterest thing in the 
world : 

I saw — and O, it wrung my heart to see-^- 
Even Hector trailed behind a four-horse car. 

What Hector ? or how long will he be Hector ? 
Accius conceives better ; and, at length, Achilles 
has a glimmer of reason : 

7 



78 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Nay, howsoe'er to Priam, I restored 

The body ; Hector, at least, I 've taken off. 

It was not Hector, then, thou hast dragged, but 
the body, which had been that of Hector ? Be- 
hold, another rises out of the earth, and will not 
suffer his mother to sleep : 

O, mother, thee I call, who, locked in sleep, 
Dost soothe the anxious throb maternal ; 
My fate forgot ; rise and inter thy son. 

When these verses are sung to measures so touch- 
ing and wailing as to fill whole theatres with 
tears, it is difficult not to judge the unburied are 
unhappy. 

Ere the prowling beast and birds of prey. 

He was afraid, with lacerated limbs, he might 
limp in his gait ; once fairly consumed, all such 
fears subside. 

Nor let the relics of a half-burnt king, 

With bones unfleshed, with tainted gore defiled, 

To shock the sight, lie scattered o : er the ground. 

I am at a loss what he apprehends, who warbles 
to the flute such fine verses. We are to imbue 
our minds, then, with this ; that nothing is to be 
cared for after death, since many inflict outrages 
upon enemies even when dead. Thyestes vents 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 79 

his execrations with Ennius in very graphic 
verses, at least ; in the first place, that Atreus 
may perish by shipwreck. A hard thing this; 
for such a fate is not without a deep sensation. 
But what follows is quite harmless. 

Himself to high and pointed rocks affixed, 
His mangled corse suspended by the side, 
There may he taint the cliffs with blackening gore. 

The rocks themselves were not more void of 
sense than the object suspended by the side, on 
whom this excruciating imprecation is thought to 
be wreaked. How cruel the torture, if he had 
felt it ! Without sense, there is none. The next, 
however, is mere emptiness. 

Let not the tomb receive him to its refuge, 
Where the body, from human life withdrawn. 
As in a port, from evils finds repose. 

You see the delusion implied in all this ; he thinks 
the sepulchre a port, and the dead man to enjoy 
repose there. A great fault of Pelops, who did 
not educate his son, nor teach him, up to where 
every thing is to be cared for. But why animad- 
vert upon the opinions of individuals, when the 
various errours of nations are equally glaring? 
The Egyptians embalm the dead, and keep them 
in their houses. The Persians add also a covering 



80 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

of wax, to secure the duration of the bodies for 
the longest possible time. It is the custom of the 
Magi not to inter the bodies of their friends until 
they have been first fed upon by wild beasts. In 
Hyrcania, the people support public dogs ; the 
wealthy have them of their own, and we know 
them to be a fine race of hounds ; but every man 
provides himself, according to his means, with a 
pack to devour his remains, and holds this for the 
best mode of sepulture. Chrysippus collects a 
great many others, being inquisitive in all matters 
of history ; but some are so revolting, that our 
utterance shuns and shrinks from them. This 
whole point, then, is to be deemed of no conse- 
quence, in regard to ourselves : not to be neglected 
in respect to our friends ; and yet, with perfect 
understanding, that the bodies of the dead feel 
nothing. Whatsoever is due to custom and char- 
acter, let the living see accomplished ; but still, 
ever mindful that nothing belongs to the dead. 

But, certain it is, that death is then encountered 
with the greatest equanimity, when the parting 
soul can console itself with the review of its own 
worthy actions. No man has failed to live long 
enough, who has perfectly performed the part of 
perfect virtue. There were many things, in my 
own case, to render death seasonable ; which I 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 81 

wish I could have met; for already there was 
nothing to be acquired; the duties of life had 
been crowned; the wars with fortune remained. 
Wherefore, though reason herself should fail to 
achieve that I might neglect death, my past life 
would bring it to appear that I have lived long 
enough, and more. For, although sense should 
vanish, the dead, however unconscious, will not 
want the highest and appropriate fruits of praise 
and glory. For, even if glory contain nothing for 
which it is desirable of itself, yet it follows as the 
shadow of virtue. The true judgment of the 
multitude, in regard to good men, if at any time 
they have it, is more to be commended, than it is 
essential to render them happy. But I could not 
say, in whatever acceptation, that Lycurgus, that 
Solon, want the glory of law-givers and founders 
of public discipline ; Themistocles, Epaminondas, 
of warlike merit. For, sooner will Neptune over- 
whelm Salamis itself, than the memory of the 
Salaminian trophies ; and Bseotia, with Leuctra, 
will both be swallowed, before the glory of the 
Leuctrian battle. Much later still will fame de- 
sert Curius, Fabricius, Calatinus, the two Scipios, 
the two Africans, Maximus, Marcellus, Paullus, 
Cato, Lgelius, innumerable others. To men like 
these, whoever shall seize some similitude, will 
7# 



82 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

step, if the occasion require, with mind assured to 
death ; wherein we have ascertained is either the 
greatest good, or no evil at all ; but he will even 
wish to die in the midst of his prosperity. For 
never can the crown of good things be so pleasant 
as the departure is painful. This opinion seems 
implied in the voice of that Laconian, who, when 
Diagoras the Rhodian, a celebrated Olympic vic- 
tor, had seen two sons in one day victorious at 
Olympia, went up to the old man, and making 
his compliment, " Diagoras, you may die now ; 
for as to scaling heaven, you will not expect that." 
The Greeks esteem these high matters, and per- 
haps overrate them ; especially the Greeks of that 
day ; and the man who said this to Diagoras, 
deeming it the consummation of glory for three 
Olympic victors to issue from one house, thought 
it would not be for his benefit to linger longer in 
life, exposed to fortune. But I answered thee in 
a few words what was sufficient, at least, as it 
appeared to me. For it was conceded by thee, 
that the dead are exempt from evil ; but I have 
been the more diffuse in labouring this point, be- 
cause, under the loss of friends, and in grief, this 
is the greatest consolation. For, our own regrets, 
and indulged on our own account, we ought to 
bear with moderation, to avoid the appearance of 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 83 

loving ourselves too well. But such a suspicion is 
excruciating, to think that they of whom we are 
bereft are subject, with sense to feel them, to 
those evils which are imagined by the vulgar. It 
was my resolution to cut up by the roots these 
opinions ; and, possibly, this has caused me to be 
rather too prolix. 

Auditor. Thou prolix ! Indeed, never for me. 
For the first part of thy discourse made me wish 
to die ; the latter so impressed me, that at times I 
should not decline it — at times, think it wholly 
indifferent ; but, by the whole argument, this at 
least is accomplished, that I should no longer re- 
pute death among evils. 

' Marcus. Then, shall we think worth while to 
add also the epilogue of the rhetoricians ? or, shall 
we now take our final leave of this art ? 

Auditor. By no means do thou relinquish an 
art whose graces thou hast always cultivated, in 
just return, however, to say the truth, for the or- 
naments it had bestowed on thyself. But, what 
about the epilogue ? for I long to hear, be it what 
it will. 

Marcus. It is usual to introduce in the schools 
the judgments of the immortal gods in regard to 
death ; not, however, their own fictions, but facts 
supported by the authority of Herodotus, and 



84 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

many others. In the first place, they bring for- 
ward Cleobis and Biton, the sons of the priestess 
Argia. The story is well known ; for, it being 
the rule that she should be conveyed in a chariot 
to perform a stated and solemn sacrifice at a tem- 
ple rather distant from the town, and the horses 
were by some means delayed, the young men I 
have named dropped their apparel, anointed them- 
selves with oil, and buckled to the chariot. Thus 
the priestess, arrived at the temple in a chariot 
drawn by her sons, is said to have prayed the 
goddess that she would recompense their filial 
piety, by the greatest boon that can be bestowed 
by Heaven on man. After the youths had supped 
with their mother, they retired to rest, and were 
found dead the next morning. Trophonius and 
Agamedes are said to have put up a similar peti- 
tion ; for when they had finished building a tem- 
ple to Apollo at Delphos, in worshipping the god, 
they prayed, it is true, for no small reward for 
their labour and work — for nothing in special, 
but for the best that can befall man. Apollo man- 
ifested, the third day after, that he should grant 
their prayer ; for, when he arose above the hori- 
zon, they were found dead. They say the god 
thus judged ; and, indeed, that god to whom the 
rest of the gods had conceded the privilege of di- 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH. 85 

fining in preference to others. A certain fable, 
also, is adduced about Silenus, who, having been 
captured by Midas, is said to have made him this 
return, as the price of his ransom : he taught the 
king that the best thing for man was, not to be 
born ; but the next best, to die with all speed. 
This sentiment Euripides has used in Cresphontes: 

Of human life, the varied ills well weighed, 
It were most fit, with visits of condolence, 
We mourned the house where any one is born. 
While he that ends his painful toils in death, 
Him let his friends inhume in festal robes, 
With every mark of joy and gratulation. 

There is something similar in the consolation of 
Crantor ; for he says that a certain Terinseus, the 
Elysian, inconsolable for the death of his son, 
having entered the Psychomantium. a place where 
the Manes are consulted, to inquire what had been 
the cause of so great a calamity, a note was deliv- 
ered him, inscribed with verses of this import : 

Men widely err in life, through mental night; 

Euthynous enjoys, the special prize of fate, 

An early grave ; for such was best for him and thee. 

From these and similar authorities, they conclude 
the matter decided by the gods, intimating their 
judgment by things. A certain Alcidamus, an 



86 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

ancient rhetorician of distinguished celebrity, even 
wrote the panegyric of death, which consists of a 
recapitulation of human calamities. He was defi- 
cient in those arguments which have been collect- 
ed by the subtle research of philosophers, but not 
in fluency of speech. Meanwhile, illustrious 
deaths, braved for country, generally appear to 
rhetoricians not only glorious, but also happy. 
They trace down from Erectheus, even, whose 
daughters were eager to meet death, in order to 
save the lives of their fellow-citizens ; Codrus, 
who threw himself into the thickest of the enemy, 
in the disguise of a slave, lest the royal apparel 
might betray his rank ; because the oracle had 
declared, that if the king should be slain, the 
Athenians would come off victorious. Nor, in- 
deed, is Menoeceus omitted, who, upon the faith 
of an oracle, lavished his blood for his country. 
Iphiginia at Aulis demands to be led to sacrifice, 
in order to elicit the blood of enemies at the ex- 
pense of her own. And then they come to the 
more modern. Their mouths are full of Harmo- 
dius and Aristogiton, Leonidas the Spartan, Epam- 
inondas the Theban, flourish. Our heroes were 
unknown to them ; whom it were long to enu- 
merate, such multitudes there are, with whom 
we see death to have been coveted with glory. 



CONTEMPT OF DEATH* 87 

Notwithstanding the matter stands thus, still elo- 
quence is to be used, and it is to be enforced as in 
a harangue to the people, that men may begin, 
either to wish for death, or certainly to desist from 
fearing it. For if that last of days bring us not 
extinction, but change of place, what is there 
more to be wished? But, if it obliterates and 
sweeps us away altogether, what is better than to 
drop asleep amidst the labours of life, and thus 
close our eyes in the drowse of everlasting slum- 
ber ? which if it is to be, better is the language of 
Ennius than of Solon ; for our poet says, 

No cries at my death, no tears o'er my urn. 

But that sage of Athens, 

Let not my death lack tears nor grieving friends, 
To grace my obsequies with sobs and groans. 

But let us, if anything should so happen that it 
appears the call of God for us to part from life, 
obey it with gladness and thanksgiving, as think- 
ing ourselves released from prison, and relieved of 
chains, and about to return either to our eternal 
and proper home, or to a state insusceptible of all 
sense and of all trouble ; but, if no such summons 
should announce itself, yet let us be of such mind 
as to think a day, which to others is so full of 



88 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

horrours, is an auspicious day for us ; and let u$ 
rank nothing among evils, which is appointed 
either by the immortal gods, or nature, the parent 
of all things. For we have not been planted or 
created with temerity, or by chance ; but, of a 
truth, there was some power that consulted the 
good of man ; nor would he have engendered and 
nourished a race, which, having exhausted all 
trials to the dregs, should then fall into the ever- 
lasting evil of death. Let us deem it rather a 
port, and place of refuge prepared for us ; at which 
I wish it were permitted us to arrive with out- 
spread sails ; but, if retarded by head winds, still, 
though a little the later, we shall, of necessity, 
make good our voyage to the same point. But> 
a thing which is necessary for all, can that be 
unhappy for one ? You have the epilogue, that 
you might think nothing omitted, or left unsaid. 

Auditor. Indeed, not I. And yet, even this 
epilogue has tended to corroborate my firmness. 

Marcus. Best of all. But, now let us give 
some attention to health. Meanwhile, to-morrow, 
and as many days as we shall be at the Tusculan, 
let us pursue these inquiries ; and especially those 
which tend to alleviate sorrows, fears, cupidities ; 
which, of all philosophy, is the most inestimable 
fruit. 



BOOK II. 



ON BEARING PAIN. 

NeoptoleaiuS; indeed, with Ennius, says it is 
necessary for him to philosophize, but in few 
points; for. as a whole, it likes him not. But 
I, my dear Brutus, think it necessary for me to 
philosophize; for, what can I. especially doing 
nothing, do better ? but not like him. in a few 
points. For. in philosophy, it is difficult even for 
a few things to be known to him who is not fa- 
miliar with all. or the most of things. For neither 
can a few things be selected except out of many ; 
nor will he who masters a few not follow the rest 
with the same ardour. But. in a busy and mili- 
tary life, as that of Neoptolemus then was. even a 
few things are very beneficial, and produce fruits. 
if not so copious as may be gathered from univer- 
sal philosophy, yet such as will enable us to free 
ourselves, in some measure, and at times, from 
8 



90 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

either sorrow, cupidity, or fear ; as there appeared 
to be effected, from that disputation held by me of 
late at the Tusculan, a great contempt of death ; 
which is no small step towards freeing the mind 
from fear. For a man that fears a thing not to be 
avoided at all, can by no means live in quiet of 
mind ; but he who, both because to die is neces- 
sary, and because death has nothing in it that 
should make it horrible, has no fear of it, is pro- 
vided with a powerful aid in pursuit of happiness ; 
although we are not ignorant we are to encounter 
a host of earnest gainsayers ; which was unavoida- 
ble by any means, unless we wrote nothing at all. 
For, if orations, we purposely moulded for the 
minds of the multitude ; for that faculty is popu-^ 
lar ; and eloquence, to be effective, must have the 
approbation of the hearers ; yet, if they were 
fallen upon by some, who would praise nothing 
but what they trusted they could imitate, every 
one confining the bounds of good speaking to 
what he could hope from himself, and, when they 
were overwhelmed by a tide of sentences and 
words, said they preferred fasting and famine to 
exuberance and plenty, ignorant of the very origin 
of that attic style which they pretended to follow ; 
who are already silenced, scoffed at, almost, by the 
Forum itself; what are we to expect now, when 



ON BEARING PAIN. 91 

we see the help of the people, aforetime so useful, 
can no longer be relied on at all ? For philosophy 
is content with few judges, retiring of choice from 
the crowd, and is herself an object both of suspi- 
cion and hatred for the multitude ; so that, should 
any one incline to load her with invective in the 
mass, he might do it with the cheers of the peo- 
ple ; or, should he direct his attack upon that we 
especially cultivate, he might have large succours 
from the schools of dissenting philosophers. But 
the adversaries of universal philosophy we have 
answered in Hortensius ; and what was to be said 
for the Academy, has been advanced with suffi- 
cient diligence, we think, in the four Academical 
Books ; but still, so far are we from declining to 
be written against, that this is the very thing we 
most earnestly wish. For, in Greece herself, phi- 
losophy would never have risen to honours so 
great, unless she had flourished by the contentions 
and dissensions of the most learned men. Where- 
fore, I exhort all, who are able, to seize this kind 
of glory also, from Greece, now in her decline, 
and transfer it to our city, as our ancestors, by 
their spirit and industry, have all the rest, at least, 
that were worth seeking. Indeed, that of orators, 
from such humble beginnings, has already so 
reached its summit, that, according to the course 



92 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

of nature in almost every thing, it grows old, and 
seems likely, in a short time, to come to nothing. 
Let philosophy take birth, at least in Latin letters, 
from the present times ; and let us cherish her, 
allowing ourselves to be disputed and refuted : a 
thing which ruffles the minds of those who are 
addicted, as it were, and devoted to certain estab- 
lished opinions, and, by that necessity, are com- 
pelled to advocate, for the sake of consistency, 
even what in general they do not approve. We, 
on the contrary, who seek probability, and can go 
no further than what has the appearance of truth, 
are prepared to refute without pertinacity, and be 
refuted without anger. Because, if these studies 
are translated to our literature, we shall not need 
even Greek libraries, where the multitude of books 
is infinite, from the multitude of writers ; for the 
same things are said by many; and thus they 
have deluged every thing with books. And the 
same will happen with us, should great numbers 
throng to these studies. But let us, if we can, 
encourage those who, with thorough education, 
philosophize upon principles of reason, and with 
method, not omitting the graces of an elegant 
style. For there is a certain race, who wish to 
be called philosophers, whose Latin books, indeed, 
are said to be numerous, which I have no con-* 



ON BEARING PAIN. 93 

tempt for. really, because I never read them ; but, 
since their authors themselves profess to write 
without either order or method, ornament or ele- 
gance, I neglect a reading which affords me no 
delight. For what they of that discipline both 
say and think, no man of common information is 
ignorant. Wherefore, since they will give them- 
selves no trouble as to their manner of expression, 
why they are to be read except among themselves, 
of similar sentiment, I do not understand. For, 
as Plato and the rest of the Socratic school, with 
their successors downward, are read by all, even 
by those who disapprove or faintly approve their 
opinions, while Epicurus and Metrodorus are in 
the hand of no one scarcely, besides their own 
sectaries ; so let those Latins be read only by those 
who relish their system. But it appears to us, 
that whatever is committed to letters ought to 
recommend itself to the perusal of all men of eru- 
dition ; and even if we ourselves are less compe- 
tent to accomplish this, do we therefore think it 
the less to be accomplished. And therefore the 
custom of the Peripatetics and Academics, of dis- 
cussing all questions in opposite parts, has always 
pleased me, not only because it is otherwise im- 
possible to find what is the most probable in every 
point of inquiry, but also because it affords an 
8* 



94 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

ample exercise for the talent of speaking. This 
method was first introduced by Aristotle, and has 
been retained by his followers. But, within rec- 
ollection, Philo, whom we have heard frequently, 
instituted the custom of delivering at one time the 
precepts of rhetoricians, and of philosophers at 
another. Being induced by our friends to adopt 
this method at the Tusculan, we devoted to it 
what time we had to spend there. And thus, 
when we had given the morning to diction, as 
we had done the day before, we descended, in the 
afternoon, into the Academy. The disputation 
held there we shall exhibit, not in the way of 
narrative, but in much the same words in which 
it passed and was discoursed. While walking, 
then, it commenced after this manner, and was 
introduced by an exordium something like the 
following : 

Auditor. It is impossible to express how I was 
delighted, or rather profited, by your dissertation 
of yesterday. For, though I am not conscious of 
ever having been over-fond of life, yet my mind, 
at times, would be struck with a certain fear and 
regret, when reflecting that a time must come for 
taking leave of this light, and parting with all that 
is pleasant in life. From this kind of trouble I 
am relieved, I assure you, so that I think nothing 
is less to be cared for. 



ON BEARING PAIN. 95 

Marcus, No wonder in the least at that ; for 
such is the effect of philosophy. She heals the 
mind ; banishes its vain solicitudes, delivers it from 
the chains of cupidity, expels its fearful apprehen- 
sions. But this her power is not the same over 
all ; but it has great sway, when it has embraced 
a suitable nature. For, not only fortune favours 
the brave, as the ancient proverb has it, but reason 
much more ; which, by certain precepts, confirms, 
as it were, the sinews of fortitude. Nature had 
moulded thee for something noble and exalted, 
and to look down upon the events of fortune ; and 
thus a discourse held against death is easily seated 
in a mind of strength. But, dost judge the same 
arguments to have availed with the men them- 
selves, except a very few, by whom they were 
invented, argued, and elaborately written ? For, 
how rare to find a philosopher with such morals, 
with a mind and life so regulated, as reason re- 
quires — who deems his own doctrine, not a parade 
of science, but the rule of life — who yields obe- 
dience to himself, and deference to his own de- 
crees ! Whereas, how common to see some so 
full of vanity and ostentation, that it had been 
better for them not to have been taught — some 
the votaries of money, some of glory — many the 
slaves of their passions, — so that their life is 



96 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

strangely" at war with their language ; which, to 
me, appears of all things the most disgraceful ! 
As, when a professed grammarian speaks uncouth- 
ly, or he that would be thought a musician sings 
absurdly, the disgrace is the greater, because he 
stumbles in the very science which he professes 
to know ; so the philosopher, failing in the practice 
of life, is the more disgraced, for transgressing 
those duties of which he would pass for the teach- 
er, and, having professed the art of life, is himself 
a delinquent in life. 

Auditor. Is it not to be feared, if this be as 
you say, that you adorn philosophy with a false 
glory? For, what more decisive argument that 
it profits nothing, than that certain perfect philos- 
ophers live disgracefully ? 

Marcus. Indeed, that is no argument at all. 
For, as all fields which are cultivated are not 
fruitful, and that passage of Accius is false, 

Although committed to a barren soil, 

The grain still nourishes by its own nature, 

so all minds which are cultured do not bear fruit. 
And — to dwell upon the same simile — as the 
field, however fertile, cannot be fruitful without 
culture, so with the mind, without learning. 
Thus, either of the two is abortive without the 



ON BEARING PAIN. 97 

other. The culture of the mind is philosophy. 
This eradicates the vices, and prepares the mind 
for seeding, and implants it, and sows it, as it 
were, with such principles as, when come to ma- 
turity, yield the most exuberant fruits. Then, let 
us proceed as we began. Propose the topic, if 
you please, you would like to hear discussed. 

Auditor. I look upon pain as the greatest of 
evils. 

Marcus. Even greater than disgrace ? 

Auditor. I dare not say that, in fact, and am 
ashamed to be thrust so quickly from the opinion. 

Marcus. It were more to be ashamed of, did 
you persist in it ; for what is less worthy than for 
anything to appear worse to you than disgrace, 
turpitude, wickedness? which to escape, what 
pain is to be refused, or rather not to be welcom- 
ed, sought for, embraced ? 

Auditor. Assuredly, I think so. 

Marcus. Do you see, then, when briefly re- 
minded, how much you have exhausted the ter- 
rour of pain ? 

Auditor. I see plainly ; but I desire more. 

Marcus. I will try, at least ; but the affair is 
great, and I shall require a mind that is not re- 
luctant. 

Auditor. That you shall certainly have; fop^ 



98 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

as I did yesterday, so now, I will follow reason, 
wherever she may lead me. 

Marcus. In the first place, then, I will speak 
of the imbecility of some philosophers, and of 
their various systems, the chief of whom, as well 
for authority as antiquity, the Socratic Aristippus, 
hesitated not to pronounce pain the worst of evils. 
And then Epicurus lent himself, with docility 
enough, to this enervated and effeminate opinion. 
After him, Hieronymus of Rhodes admitted the 
absence of pain for the chief of goods, so great 
was the evil he saw in pain. The rest, except 
Zeno, Aristo, Pyrrho, about the same with your- 
self just now : an evil, indeed, but others worse. 
Thus, what nature herself, and a certain generos- 
ity of virtue, immediately spurned, so that you 
could not hold pain as the worst of evils, and, 
upon the opposition of disgrace, were driven from 
the opinion, -— in that opinion, philosophy, the mis- 
tress of life, is found to persist for so many ages, 
What duty, what praise, what glory, will be 
deemed worth purchase at the expense of pain, 
by the man who shall persuade himself that it is 
the worst of evils ? On the contrary, what shame 3 
what infamy, will he shrink from, that he may 
avoid pain, who has decreed that there can be 
nothing worse? And who not miserable, not 



ON BEARING PAIN. 99 

only in suffering the severest pains, if such be the 
worst of evils, but even in knowing they are pos- 
sible to befall him ? and who is exempt, to whom 
they may not befall ? Thus, it follows, that no 
man in the world can ever be happy. Metrodo- 
rus, indeed, thinks a man perfectly happy, whose 
body is well constituted, with assurance it will 
always remain so. But where is the man that 
can have this assurance ? But Epicurus makes 
assertions which appear to me calculated to raise 
a laugh ; for he affirms, somewhere, " If the wise 
man should be burned," — you think he is going 
to say, no doubt, he will bear it, he will endure 
it, he will not sink under it. Great praise, by 
Hercules, and worthy of that Hercules by whom 
I have sworn ; but for Epicurus, the stout, rough 
man, this is not enough. "If in the bull of 
Phalaris, he will say, How sweet it is ! how I 
despise it utterly!" Even sweet? Was it too 
little, if not bitter ? But, even philosophers, who 
deny the evil of pain, do not usually say it is 
sweet for a man to be tortured ; they say it is 
rough, difficult, odious, contrary to nature, yet 
not an evil. This man, who not only calls it 
evil, but the extreme of all evils, judges the wise 
man will say it is sweet ! I do not request thee 
to think pain entitled to such epithets as Epicurus, 



100 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

a voluptuary, as you know, bestows upon pleasure* 
Let him say the same thing, if he will, in the bull 
of Phalaris, as if he were in his comfortable bed. 
I do not ascribe to the wise man so much vigour 
against pain. Let him bear it with courage, is all 
that duty requires. That he should rejoice in it, 
is what I ask not ; for it is a sad thing, beyond 
doubt, rough, bitter, inimical to nature, difficult 
to be suffered and borne. Look at Philoctetes, 
whose groans are excusable ; for he had seen 
Hercules himself, on mount (Eta, shrieking from 
intensity of pain. Thus, the arrows he had re- 
ceived from Hercules, we find, were no consola- 
tion to this man, when, 

From viperous fangs distilled, the poison 

Imbues the vital current of his veins, 

And through his tortured frame fierce anguish thrills ; 

and so exclaims, imploring aid, and desiring to die, 

O, who will hurl me to the briny deep, 
From the high summit of yon beetling cliff? 
Now, now I perish ; life is ebbing fast, 
Through anguish of the wound, the ulcer's rage. 

It appears difficult to say that a man is not suffer- 
ing evil, who is forced to exclaim in this manner. 
But, we are about to see Hercules himself broken 
down by pain at the very time when, by his 



ON BEARING PAIN. 101 

death ; he acquired immortality. What tones he 
utters, in the Trachinise of Sophocles ? who, when 
Dejanira had put him on a tunic dipped in the 
blood of the centaur, and it had clung to his flesh, 
says, — 

O, much that 5 s hard to tell, and rough to bear, 
This battered frame has braved, this mind endured ! 
Yet not the dread of Juno's mortal hate, 
Nor Eurystheus stern, has wrought me mischief 
Aught so dire, as this one frantic woman, 
This daughter of QSneus, unawares, 
Entrapped me in a vest by furies spun ; 
Which to the flesh adhering, eats its way 
To the entrails \ steals from the lungs their breath, 
Drinks my discoloured blood; and, urging on, 
Consumes with horrible pest this crumbling form ; 
Caught in the meshes of a woven curse. 
Blows, which no hostile arm, no mountain bulk 
Of earth-born giants, no twofold impetus 
Of double centaur, have dealt this body : 
Not Grecian force, nor yet barbaric rage ; 
Not that fierce race, who people earth's last verge, 
Which, scouring through, I purged of monsters fell ) 
But female guilt; by woman's hand I die. 
O son, bear that name truly to thy sire, 
Nor aught of filial tenderness retain 
Towards a mother urging me to death. 
O drag her hither, seized with pious hands. 
'Twixt her and me, now shall I see thee choose. 
Haste, dare, my son, espouse thy father's wrongs : 
9 



102 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Oh pity me ! nations will weep our woes. 

Alas ! that I should utter girlish cries, 

Whom man ne'er saw at worst of ills to groan. 

Courage, grown thus enervate, prostrate falls. 

Come hither, son, O come, behold this corse ; 

These wretched, shattered relics of thy father. 

Let all behold : and thou, celestial sire, 

Launch, I implore, on me the flashing force of thunder. 

Now, now, the whirling pangs of pain torment : 

Now the fit rages : O hands, victorious erst, 

O breast, O back, O arms of sinewy force ! 

Crushed in your gripe, did not Nemsea's lion, 

Gnashing, in groans breathe out his latest gasp? 

The lake of Lerna this right hand appeased 

The horrid victim slain upon its shores : 

This felled Geryon's twofold giant form ; 

This the desolating brute of Erymanth : 

This from the darkling realms of Tartarus, 

Drew forth the triple-headed whelp of Hydra : 

This hewed the dragon's many twisted spires : 

And sealed those eyes that watched the golden fruit. 

Many exploits besides this hand have graced ; 

And man can boast no spoil from my renown. 

Can we despise pain, when we see Hercules 
himself grieving so impatiently ? Let JEschylus 
appear, not a poet only, but a Pythagorean ; for so 
he is transmitted. With him, how do we find 
Prometheus bear the pain inflicted on account of 
the Lemnian theft, whence fire shines for mortals, 
clandestinely imparted ? The learned Prometheus 



ON BEARING PAIN. 103 

having taken it by stealth, suffers the penalty im- 
posed by the sovereign doom of Jove. Under the 
scourge of this punishment, then, fastened to 
Caucasus, he speaks thus : 

Ye race of Titans, ye of kindred blood, 

Offspring of Heaven, see me here impaled, 

And fastened to these pointed rocks, 

As fearful mariners secure their ship 

At night, trembling at Neptune's angry roar. 

Even thus, has Jove Saturnian fixed me here ; 

The hand of Vulcan summoned to his aid. 

He these bolts of fabric stern inserting, 

My limbs has riven : wretch that I am ! transfixed 

By ruthless skill, and doomed to make my home 

Of this detested dungeon of the furies. 

Where, too, on every other dismal day, 

The bird of Jove, rending with hooked claws, 

And fatal pounce, devours his horrid meal. 

Then, with fat liver crammed, and satisfied, 

Soaring aloft, he utters frightful cries, 

And laps my blood from off his feathery tail. 

When the gnawed liver springs, renewed in growth 5 

Unfailing he returns to his fell feast. 

Thus 1 this guardian of my torture feed, 

Who wreaks on me alive an endless doom. 

For, chained as you behold, and bound by Jove. 

I have no power to chase the accursed bird 

That preys upon my vitals : thus alone, 

I suffer all that's doleful ; yet in vain 

I look around for death to end my woes : 



104 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Doomed not to die by Jove's severe decree. 
This old, this new, this ever-growing plague, 
Forever to this body horrid clings ; 
Whence briny drops, forced by the solar blaze, 
Distilling, wear the stones of Caucasus. 

It would seem scarce possible not to say of a 
man thus affected, that he is unhappy : and if this 
man is unhappy, pain is certainly an evil. 

Auditor. As yet, at least, you have upheld my 
cause ; but this I shall see presently. Meanwhile., 
whence are those verses ? for they are new to me. 

Marcus. I will tell you, as I live ; for you may 
well inquire. You know I abound in leisure. 

Auditor. And what then ? 

Marcus. When you were at Athens 3 no doubt 
you frequented the schools of the philosophers. 

Auditor. It is true I did so ; and much to my 
satisfaction. 

Marcus. Then you must have observed, though 
at that time there was no one who excelled much 
for eloquence, that, however, they sprinkled their 
discourse with verse. 

Auditor. Nay, I remember we had a great 
many from Dionysius the stoic. 

Marcus. You are perfectly right. But what 
he introduced resembled school exercises, with-} 
out selection, without elegance. Our friend Philo, 



ON BEARING PAIN. 105 

not only used to select his poems with taste, 
but connected them with his subject, in place. 
Thus, since I began to acquire a fondness for this 
kind of declamation, suited to the decline of life, 
I use our own poets, I confess, with a partial 
preference. But where, at any time, they fail me, 
I have translated myself largely from the Greeks, 
that our Latin discourse might want no ornament 
in this kind of disputation. But do you see 
what mischief the poets have wrought? They 
introduce the bravest of men descending to lamen- 
tation : they soften our minds ; and then they are 
so fascinating, that they are not read only, but 
learned by heart. Thus, when to a bad educa- 
tion at home, and a life of indulgence and delica- 
cy, the poets are added also, they cripple the sinews 
of all virtue. They were therefore excluded 
rightly by Plato, from that city he sketched, when 
in search of the most perfect manners and consti- 
tution for a republic. We, however, being taught 
by Greece, read these seductions from childhood, 
and learn them ; and repute this a liberal educa- 
tion and learning ! But why be angry with poets ? 
philosophers, masters of virtue, are found, who 
should say that pain is the chief of evils. But 
thou, a youth, who, having a little while since 
said it appeared so to thee, on being asked by me, 
9* 



106 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

whether worse than disgrace, at the word didst 
drop the opinion. Ask the same of Epicurus ; he 
will say, the evil of a moderate pain is greater than 
the extreme of disgrace ; for in disgrace itself 
there is no evil, unless it be followed by pains. 
Then what pain followed Epicurus, when he said 
this very thing, that pain is the w^orst of evils : 
than which disgrace, I expect none greater from a 
philosopher ? Wherefore you granted me enough ? 
when you acknowledged that disgrace appeared to 
you a greater evil than pain ; for, if you hold but 
to this, you will perceive how much to be resisted 
is pain. Nor is it so material to inquire whether 
pain is an evil or not, as how the mind is to be 
strengthened for the bearing of pain. The stoics 
twist up certain shadows of reasons, to prove it is 
not an evil ; as if all the evil lay in the word, and 
not in the thing. Why will you deceive me, 
Zeno ? for, when that which appears to me horri- 
ble, you assert is no evil at all, I am caught, and 
crave to know, in what manner the thing I deem 
the depth of misery, comes all at once to be not 
even an evil ? Nothing is evil, he says, but that 
which is base and vicious. You return to your 
trifling. I know that pain is not wickedness ; 
desist from teaching me that : now teach that pain, 
or no pain, is all one for me. It is always the 



ON BEARING PAIN. 107 

same thing, he says, at least, to living happy ; — 
which is placed in virtue alone : but still, pain is 
to be rejected. Why ? It is rough, alien to nature, 
difficult to be borne, sad, hard. Here is profu- 
sion of words : what all men call by one word, 
evil, the same may be said in so many forms. 
Instead of removing, you define my pain, when 
you say it is rough, hostile to nature, and scarce 
possible to be tolerated and borne. Neither do 
you say false ; but it had been more becoming not 
to sink under the thing, while vociferating that 
nothing is good but the honest, nothing evil but 
the base. This may be wishing : it certainly is 
not teaching. Both better and truer is this : — all 
things which nature spurns, are evils : all she calls 
for, goods. This being premised, and the verbal 
dispute determined, so much does that excel, 
which is rightly comprised under these phrases, 
what is honest, what is right, what is proper, — 
which we sometimes embrace in the name virtue, 
— that all things else reputed as the goods of the 
body and of fortune, appear very small and incon- 
siderable ; so that no evil at all, nor all evils assem- 
bled in one place, are to be compared with the 
evil of turpitude. Wherefore, if, as you admitted 
at first, turpitude is worse than pain, pain is 
absolutely nothing. For, while it shall appear 



108 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

to thee disgraceful, and unworthy of man, to 
groan, to shriek, to lament, to be crushed, to be 
disabled by pain, — then honesty, then dignity, then 
decorum, will stand before thee ; and when, be- 
holding these, thou shalt restrain thyself, pain will 
certainly yield to virtue, and, at the presence of 
mind, will sink away : for, either there is no 
virtue, or all pain is to be despised. Will you 
allow there is such a thing as prudence, without 
which, no virtue can even be understood ? Then 
how is it ? will she authorize thee to do any thing 
without profit, but with much labour ? will tempe- 
rance suffer thee to do aught without moderation ? 
could justice be worshipped by the man, who, 
through pain, will disclose counsels, betray friends, 
abandon the most sacred duties ? What ! how 
wilt thou answer fortitude, with her companions, 
greatness of soul, gravity, patience, a spirit superior 
to fortune? Broken down, prostrate, and deplor- 
ing with lamentable voice, wilt thou hear, O the 
brave man ! I doubt, in such a plight, if any 
would even call thee a man. Then fortitude is to 
be lost, or pain is to be sepulchred. Do you know 
that if you should lose some of your Corinthian 
vases, you may have the rest of your furniture 
safe ; but, should you lose a single virtue, — al- 
though virtue cannot be lost, — but should you 



ON BEARING PAIN. 109 

confess that you have not one particular virtue, that 
you will have none left ? 

Then could you apply the epithets of brave 
man, or magnanimous, or patient, or grave, or the 
contemner of fortune, either to Prometheus, or to 
that Philoctetes ? for I prefer to avert the question 
from thee ; but, assuredly, he was not a brave 
man, 

Who, stretched on the humid bed, resounding 

With wailing, shrieks, laments, and bellowing groans, 

Attuned his voice to all the notes of woe. 

That pain is pain, I do not deny ; for why 
should fortitude be desired ? but I say it is kept 
under by patience : — if, at least, there be any 
patience. If there be no such thing, why do we 
extol philosophy? or why do we glory in her 
name ? Pain pricks ; nay, let it stab even ; if thou 
art naked, present thy throat. But if covered with 
Vulcanian armour, that is fortitude ; resist : for un- 
less thou dost, this guardian of dignity will leave 
and forsake thee. Indeed, the laws of the Cretans, 
which, whether sanctioned by Jupiter, or Minos, 
had, as the poets tell us, at least the authority of 
Jove ; and equally those of Lycurgus, inured the 
youth to labours, by hunting, running, fasting, 
thirsting, enduring the extremes of heat and cold. 



110 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

But at Sparta, the boys are received at the altar 
with such scourgings, as draw the blood freely 
from their flesh : sometimes, as I heard when I 
was there, even unto death. Not one of them 
ever uttered a cry, nay, not even a groan. Then 
what ? boys may do this, men could not ; and 
custom is powerful, reason impotent? There is 
some difference between labour and pain ; they 
are near borderers, certainly ; but still there is a 
partition between them. Labour is the execution 
of some considerable work, or performance, whether 
of body or mind ; but pain is a rough motion in 
the body, that shocks the senses. These two, 
those Greeks whose language is more copious than 
ours, call by one name ; and thus, with them, in- 
dustrious men are studiers, or rather lovers of 
pain : but we more properly call them laborious ; 
for labour is one thing, and pain is another. O 
Greece ! how needy of words sometimes, who 
thinkest thyself to abound with them always. 
To suffer pain, I say, is one thing ; to labour, is 
another. When the varix was cut from Caius 
Marius, he had pain ; when he marched with his 
army in sultry weather, he laboured. There is, 
however, a certain resemblance between them ; 
for the habitual use of labours will facilitate the 
endurance of pains. Accordingly, the founders of 



ON BEARING PAIN. Ill 

the republics of Greece made provision for hard- 
ening the bodies of their youth by labour. This 
the Spartans have extended even to females ; who, 
in other cities, with the most indulgent treatment, 
are concealed by the shelter of walls. But the 
Spartans would have nothing like this with the 
virgins of Lacedsemon ; for whom athletic exer- 
cises, the Eurotas, the sun, the dust, labour, and 
the parade of war, have more charms than a 
sottish fertility. And, therefore, amid these la- 
borious recreations, even pain is of no unfrequent 
occurrence. They push, and are pushed about, 
getting frequent blows and falls ; and labour itself 
affords a sort of callus for pain. 

But the soldiery, ours I refer to, not the 
Spartan, who march to the flute, and are always 
harangued in anapestics ; but our armies, you see, 
in the first place, whence they have the name, 
exercitus, from exercise ; and then what labour, and 
how great attends their march ; to carry more than 
half a month's provision of food ; to carry what- 
ever they wish to use ; to carry a palisade. For as 
to shield, sword, helmet, our soldiers think no 
more of calling them burthens, than their shoul- 
ders, arms, hands ; for they are called the mem- 
bers of a soldier. And, indeed, he carries them so 
featly, that, if need be, dropping his burthens, he 



112 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

can fight with his disencumbered weapons, as if 
they were his members. Then the exercise of the 
legions ! what! that race, that shock, that clamorous 
shout, how vast the labour ! Hence, in battle, that 
soul prepared for wounds. Lead up an unexercised 
soldier, of equal courage, he will appear a woman. 
Why is there so great difference between a new 
and veteran army as we have found ? the age of 
the fresh soldier is commonly in his favour ; but 
to bear labour, to despise wounds, is learned from 
custom. But, also, we often see the wounded 
borne out of battles, and that green and unexer- 
cised soldier, though his wound is little more than 
a scratch, is deploring at the most shameful rate. 
Whereas, this other, exercised and old, and, for 
that reason, all the braver, only asks for a surgeon 
to bind his wounds. 

O Patrocles, I come to ask assistance, 

And your hands, before I sink beneath 

This plague accursed, hurled at me by the foe. 

No means are left the gushing blood to staunch,* 

Nor death to stay, except through skill of thine 5 

For heaps of wounded glut the porticoes 

Of iEsculapius' sons, and all approach deny. 

Certainly this is Eurypilus, a man of exercise^ 
where so much grief is suppressed. Observe how 



ON BEARING PAIN. 



113 



far from tears he will answer : he gives the reason, 
even why he ought to take his fortune quietly : 

Whoever aims destruction at another, 

Should know, that plagues are brewing for himself. 

That he may share the like. 

Patrocles, I trust, will lead him off to a couch, 
that he may bind his wounds ; at least, if he has 
a spark of humanity ; but of this I never saw less ; 
for he inquires about the action. 

Say, how in battle speeds the Argive cause ? 
Words fail to utter what their deeds supply. 
You sink ; so rest thee : bind thy wounds ; be hushed, 

Even though Eurypilus might, iEsopus could not, 

When, by the chance success of Hector, 
Our strenuous battle checked. * * * 

and goes on to explain the rest in pain ; for such 
is the enthusiasm of military glory in a brave man. 
Thus the veteran soldier can exhibit a model the 
wise and the learned must despair to rival ? Nay, 
they will surpass it ; and that not a little. But as 
yet, I speak of custom and exercise ; of wisdom 
and reason in their place. Tender old women 
often support a fast of two or three days. With- 
draw his rations for one day from a wrestler ; he 
will appeal to that Olympic Jove himself, for 
10 



114 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

whom he exercises ; he will cry out it is impossi- 
ble to bear it. Great is the force of habit. 
Hunters pass whole nights in the snow ; they 
suffer themselves to be scorched upon the moun- 
tains. Hence pugilists, pulverized with blows of 
the gauntlet, never so much as groan. But why 
do I cite those, for whom the Olympic victory 
appeared like the ancient lustre of the consulship ? 
Gladiators, either desperate men, or barbarians, 
what wounds they despise ! how much do they, 
who are well trained, prefer to receive a wound, 
rather than avoid it with disgrace ! how often is 
it plain, they seek nothing so much, as to satisfy, 
either their master, or the people ! Covered with 
wounds, they even send to their masters to inquire 
their pleasure ; if they are content, for themselves, 
they desire to die. What tolerable gladiator was 
ever known to groan ? Who ever saw one change 
countenance ? or betray the dastard, whether stand- 
ing or falling ? or, when fallen, if bid receive the 
sword, defend the neck ? So great is the effect of 
exercise, meditation, custom. Shall such traits 
attach to the Samnite slave ? 

The dregs of man, worthy his place and fate. 

And shall the man born to glory, have any part of 
the mind so soft, as to defy the corroboration of 



ON BEARING PAIN. 115 

meditation and reason ? The spectacle of gladia- 
tors, in the opinion of some, is both cruel and 
inhuman ; and, as now practised, I do not know 
that it is not : but when malefactors were doomed 
to mutual battle, perhaps many for the ears, but for 
the eyes, there could not be a braver discipline 
against pain and death. Of exercise, of medita- 
tion, of custom, I have spoken; come, now, and 
let us see as it respects reason ; unless you have 
something to object as to these. 

Auditor. What ! for me to interrupt thee I 
neither indeed could I wish it ; so effectual to 
persuasion has been thy discourse. 

Marcus. Then, whether it be an evil to have 
pain, let the stoics see, who, by certain forced 
and sophistical inferences, refuted by the senses, 
would have it appear that pain is not an evil. I 
do not think it, whatever called, so great as it 
appears ; and I say that we are startled too vehe- 
mently by a false view and spectre of it ; and 
that all pain can be tolerated. Then where shall 
I commence ? shall I briefly touch what has been 
said lately, that our discourse may proceed with 
more ease? It is agreed by all, not only the 
learned, but the unlearned, that it belongs to the 
brave, the patient, the magnanimous, the victor of 
human events, to suffer pain with firmness, Nor, 



116 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

indeed, was there ever any one, who thought the 
man who so suffered, not to be praised. 

Then, what we both expect from the brave, and 
applaud when it happens, is it not disgraceful, 
either to dread when coming, or not to bear when 
arrived? But we shall see, though right affec- 
tions of the mind are all called virtues, yet this 
name is not proper to them all ; but from the excel- 
lence of one, they were all named from it. For 
virtue is so called from vir, a man ; but the special 
attribute of man is fortitude ; and its two princi- 
pal functions are, the contempt of death and of 
pain. These we must exercise, if we would be 
virtuous ; nay, if we would be men ; since virtue 
has borrowed her name from man. You inquire, 
perhaps, how? and rightly; for such medicine 
philosophy professes to supply. Epicurus arrives ; 
not a bad man at all ; or rather a very good man ; 
he advises as well as he knows. Neglect pain, he 
says. Who says this ? The same who said pain 
was the extreme of evils. Scarce consistent 
enough. Let us hear. If pain be extreme, he 
says, it is necessarily short. Repeat me that : for 
I do not understand clearly, what you will have 
to be extreme, nor what short. Extreme is that, 
beyond which there is nothing ; and short, where 
nothing can be shorter. The magnitude of pain 



ON BEARING PAIN. 117 

I despise, from which I shall be rescued by the 
shortness of time, almost before it arrives. But a 
pain like that of Philoctetes ? well and good. It 
appears great to me indeed ; but not extreme ; for 
nothing pained him but the foot. The eyes may, 
the head may, the sides, the lungs, every thing. 
It is very far, then, from the extreme of pain. 
" Therefore," he says, " inveterate pain partakes 
more of pleasantness than trouble." Now I can- 
not say of so great a man, that he is wholly void 
of reason, but I think he is scoffing at us. 

I do not say of extreme pain, for extreme I shall 
call it, although another be some ten atoms greater, 
that it is necessarily short ; and can name several 
most worthy men, who, for many years, have been 
tormented with the severest pains of the gout. 
But the shrewd man never determines the meas- 
ure, whether of magnitude or duration, that I 
may know what he would call extreme in pain, or 
short in time. Let us quit him, then, as saying 
nothing at all ; and extort the confession, that the 
remedy for pain is not to be sought from him who 
pronounces pain the maximum of all evils, how-* 
ever he might have shown himself with flashes of 
courage in his colics and strangury. We must go 
somewhere else, then, for the object of our search; 
and, especially, — if there be any thing especial in 
10* 



118 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

consistency, — to those who hold the honest, for 
the chief good ; the base, for the maximum of evil. 
In the presence of these, thou wilt not dare even 
to groan, and toss thyself about ; for virtue herself 
would address thee by their voice. Wilt thou? 
when thou seest boys at Lacedsemon, youths at 
Olympia, barbarians in the arena, receive the most 
excruciating inflictions, and bearing in silence, — 
if haply some pain shall give thee a smart twinge, 
wilt thou scream like a woman? wilt thou not 
bear it sedately, and with constancy? It is im- 
possible to be done : nature will not suffer it. I 
hear. Boys bear it from the motive of glory ; 
others bear it from shame ; many from fear ; and 
still shall we apprehend, that what is borne by so 
many, and in so many places, is insufferable to 
nature? But nature not only admits, she also 
even claims it ; for she holds nothing more excel- 
lent, seeks nothing with more ardour, than 
honour, than praise, than dignity, than what is 
becoming. For by all these names I would have 
one thing be signified ; but I use several, that I 
may impress it the more emphatically. But this 
I would declare by far the best for man, that 
which of itself is desirable, and for its own sake, 
be it the effect of virtue, or residing in virtue her- 
self; laudable at all times, of her own impulse; 



ON BEARING PAIN. 119 

which, indeed, I would sooner call the only, than 
not the greatest good. And as this for the honest, 
so the contrary for the shameful. Nothing so dis- 
gusting, nothing to be spurned so much, nothing 
more unworthy of man. Because you are per- 
suaded of this, — for you said, at the beginning, 
you saw more evil in disgrace than in pain, — 
what remains is only that you command yourself. 
Although I know not how this should be said, as, 
if we were two, that one should command, and 
the other obey ; it is said, however, not without 
prudence. For the soul is apportioned in two 
parts j one of which participant of reason, the 
other not. When, therefore, it is recommended 
that we command ourselves, the maxim is this : 
Let reason rule rashness. There is, in the minds 
of nearly all men, by nature, something soft, abject, 
low, enervated somehow, and languid, doting. 
If this were all, nothing were more disgusting 
than man. But there is also the mistress and 
queen of all things, reason, who, supported by 
herself, and after long progress, becomes perfect 
virtue. That she bear sway over that part of the 
mind which ought to obey: this should be the 
chief study of man. In what manner, dost ask ? 
In the same as the master over his servant — the 
general over his soldier — the parent over his son. 



120 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

If that part of the mind I have designated as 
soft behave itself shamefully, — if it give way to 
womanish tears and laments, - — let it be checked 
and constrained by the custody of nearest friends ; 
for, whom no reason could control, we have often 
seen subdued by shame. Then let us keep down 
these as refractory slaves, almost with bonds and 
confinement. Such, however, as are nearer to 
firmness, but yet too irresolute, should be admon- 
ished, as we do good soldiers when rallied, to 
maintain their character. That wisest of the 
Greeks, in the Niptrae, when wounded, does not 
complain to excess, but moderately rather : 

Move gently, step by step, with even poise, 
Lest, from the jolt, a sharper pain should seize. 

For this, Pacuvius is more to be approved than 
Sophocles ; for, with him, Ulysses laments under 
a wound too pitifully. But, even here, they who 
bear him off wounded, when he utters some slight 
groan, considering the gravity of the personage, do 
not hesitate to say, — 

Thou, too, Ulysses, though severely hurt 
We see thee, bearest a mind almost too soft 
For such a veteran, grown old in arms. 

The discerning poet perceives that custom is not a 
contemptible preceptress for the bearing of pain. 



ON BEARING PAIN. 121 

But, for a man who suffers severely, not very im- 
patiently : 

Stop ! hold fast ! O, in your arms sustain me ! 
Unbind the wound ! O, wretched me ! what torture ! 

He begins to sink ; then immediately desists. 

Cover and leave me. Quick, O quick let be ; 
Your hand, your touch exasperates the pain. 

You notice, he was silenced through no abate- 
ment of pain in the body, but from having sub- 
dued that of the mind. And thus, at the close of 
the Niptrse, he reprimands others in turn; and 
that when dying : 

To plain our adverse fortune, not lament, 
Becomes the man ; weeping to woman's genius 
Falls. 

Thus, the softer part of this man's mind renders 
obedience to reason, as a modest soldier to a stern 
general. But he that shall be invested with per- 
fect wisdom, — a man we have never seen as yet; 
but the traits he would bear, should there ever be 
one, are found in the precepts of philosophers. 
This sage, then, or that perfect and absolute rea- 
son he would possess, will govern that inferior 
part, as a just parent his dutiful children ; he 
effects his wishes with a nod — with no labour, no 



122 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

trouble. He will stand erect — arouse his vigi- 
lance — prepare his munitions — arm himself to 
receive pain, as he would the enemy. What 
arms are these ? Exertion, courage, inward ha- 
rangue, as self-exhorting ; beware of any thing 
shameful, cowering, unmanly. Let the mind 
pass in review the portraits of the noble ; let the 
Eleatic Zeno figure before it, who suffered the 
worst of torture, to avoid naming his associates in 
a design for destroying a tyranny ; let it contem- 
plate the Democritian Anaxarchus, who, fallen into 
the hands of Nicocreon, king of Cyprus, neither 
deprecated nor declined the most cruel refinements 
of torment. 

Calanus of India, a man without learning, and 
a barbarian, born at the roots of Caucasus, was 
burned alive, at his own choice. 

We, if the toe pain us, or the tooth, if a stitch 
is felt in the body, are unable to bear it ; for there 
is a certain effeminate and light opinion in cur- 
rency, not more in regard to pain than to pleasure, 
which, when it has melted us, and we flow with 
softness, we cannot withstand the sting of a bee 
without exclamation. But yet, Caius Marius, a 
rustic man, but thoroughly a man, when cut, as I 
have said before, in the first place, forbids himself 
to be bound ; nor is it said that any one before 



ON BEARING PAIN. 123 

Marius was cut at his freedom. Why, then, were 
others after? The weight of authority. Thus 
you see the evil has its roots in opinion, — not in 
nature. And yet, the same Marius showed the 
bite of pain to have been sharp ; for he declined 
the operation in the other leg. Thus, he at once 
bore the pain like a hero, and, like any other man, 
was not willing to bear greater, without necessary 
cause. The whole, then, consists in this, that 
you command yourself ; the kind of command I 
have shown. And to revolve in thought what is 
most worthy of patience, what of fortitude, what 
of magnanimity, not only composes the mind, 
but also renders pain itself — I know not by what 
process — more mild. For, as, in battle, the das- 
tardly and timid soldier, at sight of the enemy, 
drops his shield, and flies for life, and perishes 
sometimes by that very means, and without a 
wound, — while to him who stood firm nothing 
of the kind has happened, — so they who dare not 
encounter the face of pain, deject themselves, and 
thus remain prostrate and stunned ; whereas, they 
who have shown him a firm countenance have 
almost always departed the victors. For there 
are certain resemblances of the mind with the 
body. As burthens are borne easier with the 
body exerted, — oppress it, when slack, so the 



I 



124 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

mind, by its own endeavour, repels the pressure of 
every weight ; but, by remission of effort, it is so 
borne down, that it cannot erect itself. And, if 
we seek truth, this utmost stretch of mind is to be 
exhibited in the prosecution of all our duties ; for 
this, in fact, is the sole guardian of duty. But in 
pain, more especially, we must be guarded, lest 
anything be done abjectly, or timidly, or dastard- 
ly, or aught that is servile or effeminate ; and, 
first of all, let that Philoctetean clamour be spurn- 
ed and rejected. To groan is sometimes allowa- 
ble for man, and that rarely; howling not even 
for woman. And, no doubt, this is that lessus 
which the twelve tables forbid to be used at fune- 
rals. Nor does the brave and wise man, indeed, 
even groan, unless, perhaps, to intend himself for 
firmness ; as the runners in the stadium shout 
with all the force they can exert. Wrestlers do 
the same, when they exercise ; but pugilists groan 
even while hurling the gauntlet, as they strike the 
adversary ; not from pain, or want of spirit, but 
because, by pouring out the voice, the whole 
body is exerted, and the blow falls with greater 
vehemence. What ! do they who design the 
higher displays of voice content themselves with 
the force of the chest, the cheeks, the tongue, 
from which we see it uttered and poured ? With 



ON BEARING PAIN. 125 

the whole body, and with all the nails, as they 
say, they pull at the oar of sound. 

With the knee, by Hercules, I saw Mark An- 
thony, when earnestly speaking for himself, under 
the Varian law, touch the earth. For, as the 
Balista volleys the stones, and other missiles of 
destruction, with effect in proportion to the inten- 
sity with which it is stretched and charged, so 
the voice, the race, the blow, are more effective 
as they are sped with the more intensity. Then, 
if so great be this force of tension, — if the groan 
will serve to invigorate the mind under pain, let 
us use it. But if that groan be lamentable, or 
abject, or imbecile, or wailing, I would scarce call 
him man, that should indulge it. Even if some 
alleviation were the result of such a groan, we are 
still to remember what belongs to the man of 
courage and soul. But, when it lessens the pain 
not at all, why should we disgrace ourselves for 
nothing ? for what is more disgraceful to a man 
than to cry like a woman ? And this precept in 
regard to pain has wider application ; for all things 
are to be resisted — not pain alone — -with the like 
exertion of mind. Does anger kindle ? is lust 
excited ? the same fortress affords the refuge — 
the same arms are to be wielded. But, since we 
speak of pain, let them pass. To bear pain, then ? 
11 



126 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

placidly and sedately, there is much profit in re- 
flecting, with the whole breast, as it is said, how 
noble, how honest it is. For we are naturally, as 
I have said, — and it should be said often, — most 
ardent admirers and most earnest votaries of the 
honest. Whenever we catch the glimpse of its 
light, as it were, there is nothing we are not will- 
ing to suffer or do, to make it our own. From 
this impulse and current of minds towards true 
praise, those dangers are braved in battle : brave 
men are insensible to wounds in action ; or, if 
they feel them, will sooner die than flinch a hair 
from the step of honour. 

The Decii saw the flashing swords of the ene- 
my, when they dashed into the thick of their bat- 
tle. The lustre, the glory of the death absorbed 
all fear of wounds. Dost think Epaminondas 
groaned, as he felt his life departing with his 
gushing blood ? He left his country the mistress 
of Sparta, — he had received it her slave. These 
are solaces, these are dressings, for the most search- 
ing pains. 

But, what in peace ? you say ; what at home ? 
on the bed of sickness ? You revoke me to the 
philosophers ; for they are rarely to be found in the 
battle-field. One of them, Dionysius of Heraclea, 
— not the gravest of men, certainly, — when he 



ON BEARING PAIN. 127 

had learned of Zeno to be brave, was untaught by- 
pain ; for, seized by an attack of the reins, he 
exclaimed, in mid-howling, that it was all false, 
that very theory of pain he had so long defended ; 
and, when asked by his fellow-disciple, Cleanthes, 
what reason had urged him to abandon his princi- 
ples, answered, When I have laboured so long in 
philosophy, and am still unable to endure pain, I 
think it clear enough, that pain is an evil ; for I 
have spent many years in philosophy, and cannot 
endure it ; then pain is of course an evil. Then 
Cleanthes, striking the earth with his foot, is said 
to have repeated, from the Epigoni, this verse : 

Hearest thou this, O Amphiaraus, under this earth at rest? 

His appeal referred to Zeno, from whose system 
he was grieved at such degeneracy. 

But not so our Posidonius, whom I have often 
seen myself: and I will relate an anecdote that 
Pompey was fond of reciting ; that, on his return 
from Syria, when he had come to Rhodes, he 
wished to hear Posidonius : but, being told he 
was very sick with a severe gout in his joints, still 
he resolved to visit so very celebrated a philoso- 
pher. When he had seen him, and made his 
compliment, and was sorry he could not have the 
pleasure of hearing him — but thou canst, said 



128 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

the other ; for it shall never be said that pain has 
prevailed with me to suffer so great a man to visit 
me in vain. And so he told us, Posidonius dis- 
coursed in bed, with much power and eloquence, 
on this very point : that nothing is good but the 
honest ; and, when pain applied his torches, as it 
were, he would often say, — Pain, you lose your 
labour ; for, though you are troublesome, I will 
never own you for an evil. 

And, absolutely, all noble and distinguished 
labours, by dint of exertion, become tolerable. Do 
we not see, with the masters of the gymnastic 
schools, what an honour it is held, for all who 
engage in that conflict, never to shrink from pain ? 
and with those who are devoted to the pursuits of 
hunting and horsemanship, the same contempt of 
pain is the path to renown. What shall I say 
of our ambitions ? what of the passion for wealth ? 
What flames have not been rushed through by 
those who formerly gathered these things, point 
after point? And therefore the Socratic Xeno- 
phon was always in the hand of Africanus ; and 
he especially admired this sentiment of his, — that 
the same labours were not equally severe for the 
leader and the soldier ; since the honour of com- 
mand rendered lighter the labour of the general. 
But the misfortune is, that, with the unskilful 



ON BEARING PAIN. 129 

crowd, the opinion of honesty passes for good. 
Being unable to discern what is genuine, and 
seduced by fame and popular judgment, men are 
apt to think that honest which is generally praised. 
But, as for thee, if thou shouldst be the darling of 
the multitude, yet I would not have thee abide by 
its judgment, nor think that the perfection of 
beauty which appears such to them. Thou art 
to pass judgment on thyself. If, rightly approv- 
ing, thou art pleased with thyself, then thou hast 
conquered not only thyself, as I recommended a 
little before, but all men and all things. Then 
teach thyself to consider an amplitude and eleva- 
tion of soul, exaggerated, as it were, as high as 
possible, which displays itself especially in the 
contempt of pain, as the one most beautiful thing 
of all others ; and more beautiful still, if, aloof 
from the people, and without an eye to applause, 
it derive all its delight from its own approval. 
Indeed, there is nothing praiseworthy, which does 
not appear to me more laudable, when performed 
without ostentation, or the attestation of the peo- 
ple. Not that it is to be avoided ; for all good 
deeds desire the light of the world ; but yet, there 
is no theatre to virtue greater than conscience. 
And let us meditate this, in the first place, — that 
this patient toleration of pain, which I have often 
11* 



130 THE TTJSCTJLAN QUESTIONS. 

said is to be confirmed by effort of mind, may 
display itself uniformly in every kind. For, fre- 
quently, many who, from desire of victory, love 
of glory, or even in defence of their rights and 
liberty, have received and borne wounds with 
courage, when the excitement is past, are unable 
to bear disease like the same men ; for neither had 
they borne the pains they had sustained so well 
by reason or wisdom, but more from passion and 
glory. Thus, certain barbarians and savages will 
brave steel to the utmost, but shrink from the bed 
of sickness, and cannot meet it like men. But 
the Greeks, not remarkable for spirit, but prudent 
enough, as their capacity bears, are incapable of 
facing the foe ; yet they bear diseases with pa- 
tience and manhood. But the Cimbrians and Cel- 
tiberians exult in battles — bewail themselves in 
sickness ; for nothing can be uniform that is not 
ruled by reason. But when you see those who 
are guided by passion and prejudice, in the pursuit 
and acquisition of their objects, are invincible to 
pain, you ought to judge either that pain is not an 
evil, or, if you prefer to call evil whatever is rough 
and unpleasant to nature, yet that it is so trifling 
as to be overwhelmed by virtue, so as to vanish. 
This I entreat you to meditate by night and by 



ON BEARING PAIN. 



131 



day ; for this method will diffuse itself wider, and 
fill a somewhat wider space than belongs to pain 
alone. For, if we act steadily upon the principle 
of guiding all our aims to the acquisition of hon- 
our, and of avoiding shame, we may despise not 
only the goads of pain, but the thunderbolts of 
fortune ; especially, when that refuge is prepared 
we had in view during our disputation of yester- 
day. For, if some god should say to any one 
pursued by pirates at sea, Throw thyself over- 
board; there is something provided — either a dol- 
phin, as in the case of Arion of Methimnae, or 
those Neptunian steeds of Pelops, who are said to 
have swept the light chariot over the waves, 
shall receive and bear thee where thou wilt, — he 
would banish all fear. So, if pursued by sharp 
and unrelenting pains, should they prove too hate- 
ful to be borne, thou seest the asylum to be 
sought. This is about what I thought was to 
be said at this time. But perhaps you remain 
still of the same opinion. 

Auditor. Far from it, indeed ; and I hope that 
I have been freed, in two days, from the fear of 
two things, which, of all others, I feared the 
most. 

Marcus. Then to-morrow, at the hour ; for so 



132 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

I promised ; and I see this is a debt where your 
indulgence is not to be expected. 

Auditor, You may well say that ; and the 
other besides, in the morning ; this at the same 
hour. 

Marcus. We will do so, and encourage thy 
studies in the best of things. 



BOOK III 



ON THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 

What shall I suppose, my dear Brutus, to be 
the cause why, since we consist of soul and body, 
an art should have been sought out for restoring 
and preserving the health of the body, and its 
usefulness consecrated to the invention of the im- 
mortal gods, while the curative treatment of the 
soul should neither have been so much desired 
before it was invented, nor so much cultivated 
when discovered, nor welcomed and approved by 
so many, — but, on the contrary, by the greater 
number, even eyed with suspicion, and hated? 
Is it because we judge with the mind the indispo- 
sition and pain of the body, and have no sense in 
the body of the maladies and diseases of the 
mind? Thus, the mind passes judgment upon 
itself, when that with which it judges is sick. 
Because, if nature had so formed us, that we could 



134 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

behold, and look through herself, and, with her 
for a sure guide, could complete the course of life, 
it had been superfluous, no doubt, for any one to 
cultivate reason and learning. Now, soon de- 
praved by evil customs and mistaken opinions, 
we so extinguish the little sparks she gave us, 
that the light of nature nowhere appears. For ? 
in our understandings are innate seeds of the vir- 
tues, which, if allowed to ripen, nature herself 
would lead us infallibly to happy life. But now, 
as soon as we are brought into light, and taken 
into the lap, we are ushered immediately into all 
the delusion and extreme perversity of opinions ; 
so that we appear to have sucked in error almost 
with the milk of the nurse. But, when returned 
to our parents, and thence turned over to masters, 
we are then so imbued with various errors., that 
truth is supplanted by delusion, and nature herself 
by inveterate prejudice. Then come the poets, 
who, having presented themselves with a plausi- 
ble show of wisdom and learning, are heard, read, 
studied, and lodged in our inmost hearts. But, 
when to the same point repairs a certain grand 
master, as it were, — the people, — and the whole 
multitude, on all hands, unanimous for vices, then 
at length we are absolutely infected with the de- 
pravity of opinions, and our revolt from nature is 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 135 

complete. So that they appear to have envied us 
our best nature, who have pronounced nothing 
better for man, nothing to be more pursued, noth- 
ing more excellent, than honours, commands, pop- 
ular glory. To these every noblest spirit is hur- 
ried ; and, in search of that true honesty, which 
is the one most ardent desire of nature, is betrayed 
into the chase of a phantom ; and, instead of the 
solid sculpture of virtue, pursues a shadowy like- 
ness of glory ; for true glory is a thing of sub- 
stance and bold relief, — not shadowy. It is the 
consentaneous praise of the good — the unbought 
voice of those who judge well of excelling virtue. 
It is the echo of virtue, and resounds, as it were, 
her image ; and, because it is the usual companion 
of good deeds, is not to be repudiated by good 
men. But that counterfeit, which pretends to 
pass for her, rash and inconsiderate, and more 
often the applauder of faults and of vices, — popu- 
lar renown, — by affecting the features of honesty, 
corrupts all their symmetry and beauty. From 
this blindness, men really seeking a noble distinc- 
tion, not knowing where it was to be found, nor 
wherein it consisted, have, some totally subverted 
their own republics, and some rushed headlong 
upon their own destruction. Thus deluded in 
their pursuit of the best things, they fall victims, 



136 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

with good intentions, to a mistaken course. What ! 
for those who are hurried away by the passion 
for money, by the rage for pleasures — whose 
minds are so agitated that they come but little 
short of insanity, — the infallible destiny of all 
the dupes of folly — is there to be no attempt at 
cure for these? Wherefore? Is it because the 
sicknesses of the mind are less hurtful than those 
of the body? or because that bodies admit of 
being cured, but for the mind there are no rem- 
edies ? On the contrary, the diseases of the mind 
are more pernicious, as well as more numerous, 
than those of the body ; for the most odious part, 
even of these, is their effect upon the mind, which 
they disturb ; and the sick mind, as Ennius says, 

Ever wanders, impatient to endure 
Or suffer: to covet never ceasing; 

than which two diseases, -=» sorrow and cupidity, 
— to say nothing of the rest, how can there be 
any more severe in the body ? And how can it 
be shown that the mind cannot cure itself, when 
it was the mind that invented even the method of 
healing the body, and when the recovery of the 
body is much assisted by its own constitution and 
by nature ; and not all who submit themselves to 
medical treatment are infallibly certain of conva- 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 137 

lescence ; whereas, the mind that wishes to be 
healed, and shall obey the precepts of the wise, 
will recover its health, beyond all doubt. This 
method of cure for the mind, in truth, is found in 
philosophy, whose succour is not, as in diseases of 
the body, to be sought from without ; all our re- 
sources, all our energies, are to be employed, that 
we may operate a cure for ourselves. Although 
of philosophy in general, how much to be prized 
and cultivated, enough has been said, as I think, 
in Hortensius ; since which, we have scarce left 
anything untouched relating to its most important 
points, whether in discourse or writing. But in 
these books we have registered the discussions 
which we held with our friends in the Tusculan. 
And as the two preceding books contain what was 
said upon Death and Pain, the third day's disputa- 
tion will form the argument of the present volume. 
For, as we descended into our Academy, the day 
being already advanced beyond the hour of noon, 
I requested any of the company present to propose 
a subject for discussion. Then the affair proceed- 
ed as follows : 

Auditor. It appears to me that the wise man is 
subject to sorrow. 

Marcus. Is he also to the remaining perturba- 
tions of the mind, — terrors, cupidities, angers? 
12 



138 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

for these are much like what the Greeks call naty, 
I might diseases ; and this would be word from 
word; but it would not harmonize with our 
usage. For, to pity, to envy, to exult, to rejoice, — 
all these the Greeks call diseases, as motions of 
the mind refusing obedience to reason. But, all 
these agitations of the excited mind we shall 
term, and, as I think, rightly, perturbations ; for 
diseases would sound too strangely ; unless you 
prefer something else. 

Auditor. Indeed, I think it better as you 
have it. 

Marcus. Then do you think the wise man 
subject to these ? 

Auditor. Assuredly I do. 

Marcus. Upon my word, that wisdom so much 
extolled is not worth much, after all, since it dif- 
fers so little from insanity. 

Auditor. What ! does every commotion of mind 
appear to thee insanity ? 

Marcus. Not to me only ; but, what I often 
reflect upon with surprise, I perceive it appeared 
so to our ancestors, many ages before Socrates, 
from whom all this philosophy, relating to life and 
manners, is derived. 

Auditor. How is this perceived, I pray ? 

Marcus. Because the name insania signifies 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 139 

sickness and disease of mind ; and thus they call^ 
ed the state of a sick and unsound mind insanity. 
But philosophers give the appellation of diseases 
to all perturbations of mind ; and they assert that 
no fool is ever free of them ; but they who are in 
disease are not sound ; and the minds of all the 
unwise are diseased ; therefore all the unwise are 
insane. For they pronounce the sanity of minds 
to consist in a certain tranquillity and constancy. 
The mind deprived of these they call insane ; for 
in the mind, the same as in the body, convulsed, 
there can be no sanity. With no less discern- 
ment, our ancestors have named the state of the 
mind when deprived of the light of intellect, 
amentia, and the same dementia, alienation of 
mind. Hence, we perceive that they who gave 
these names to things held the same opinion, 
which, received from Socrates, the Stoics have 
strenuously maintained ; that all the unwise are 
not sane ; for the mind in a state of disease — and, 
as I have just said, philosophers term these per- 
turbations diseases — can no more be sound, than 
that body which has fallen into disease. Thus, it 
appears that wisdom is the sanity of the mind, 
but insipience a sort of insanity, which signifies 
unsoundness as well as aberration of mind. And 
these ideas are much better denoted in Latin 



140 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

words than in Greek, — a remark which will 
be found applicable in many other examples. 
But another time for that ; at present, the sub- 
ject in hand. The whole object of our search, 
then, both matter and form, is found in the 
force of the word ; for it signifies, intelligibly, 
that they are sound, whose intellect is agitated by 
no disorderly motion or disease : they who are 
otherwise affected, are, of course, to be deemed 
insane. And thus nothing is better than the com- 
mon phrase of Latin discourse, when we say those 
are gone out of power, who are hurried headlong, 
whether by lust or anger : although anger itself is 
a part of lust ; for anger is defined the lust of re- 
venge. They who are said to have gone out of 
power, then, are thus designated, because they are 
not in the power of reason, to whom the empire of 
the whole soul is ascribed by nature ; whereas, 
whence the Greeks should have derived [Awta, I 
could not easily say. But we distinguish even 
that better than they ; for we disjoin this insanity, 
which, coupled with folly, has rather a wide do- 
main, from rage. The Greeks, it is true, attempt 
it ; but they fail in the word ; for, to what we 
term rage, they give the appellation of melan- 
choly, ^sXayx°^' a / a s if, forsooth, the reason were 
shaken only by black bile, and not often, either by 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 141 

a more intense anger, or fear, or grief. With this 
species of rage, we say that Athamas, Alcmaeon, 
Ajax, Orestes, were infuriated. The laws of the 
Twelve Tables prohibit men thus affected the 
control of their own affairs ; where it is not 
written, "If a man begin to be insane," but "if 
furious." For they deemed folly to be inconstan- 
cy and privation of sanity, but yet capable of the 
ordinary duties and usual transactions of social 
life ; but rage they viewed as a blindness of the 
intellect for all things ; which, however it appear 
greater than insanity, still its nature is such, that, 
while rage may befall the wise man, insanity can- 
not. This, however, is foreign to the question, 
which let us now resume. 

It appears to you, I think you said, that the 
wise man is subject to sorrow. 

Auditor. And assuredly I do think so. 

Marcus. It is certainly natural that you 
should ; for we are not born of the flint. But 
there is in minds by nature, most commonly, 
something soft and tender, which is shaken by 
sorrow as by a tempest. Nor is it absurdly said 
by that Crantor, who ranks with the first among 
the worthies of our Academy, "I am very far from 
concurring with those who so greatly extol a cer- 
tain indolency, unintelligible to me, which neither 
12* 



142 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

can nor ought to have existence. Let me not be 
sick,' 7 he says; "but, if I should be, let me have 
feeling, whether anything be amputated, or ex- 
tracted from the body. For this supposed exemp- 
tion from pain could not be had, short of the ex- 
travagant cost of ferocity in the mind, and torpor 
in the body." 

But, let us take heed, and distrust the language 
of men who flatter our weakness, and indulge our 
softness ; and let us dare not only to lop the 
branches of miseries, but to pull up all the fibres 
of the roots. Yet something, perhaps, will be 
left. But no more will remain than what exists 
of necessity. Of this, at least, be assured, that, 
unless the mind be healed, — which, without phi- 
losophy, is impossible, — there will be no end of 
miseries. Wherefore, since we have made a be- 
ginning, let us put ourselves in her hands, to be 
thoroughly cured. We shall be healed, if we are 
willing. And, indeed, I will go further, and will 
treat not only of sorrow, — although of that first, 
of course, — but of every perturbation, as I have 
put, or disease, as the Greeks have it, of the mind. 
And, at first, let us proceed, if agreeable, according 
to the Stoics, who commonly draw up their argu- 
ments in brief ; and then we will expatiate in our 
usual manner. 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 143 

He that is brave is also assured ; for, confident 
by the abuse of custom, has passed over to cen- 
sure, although derived from confiding, which is 
matter of praise. But, whoever is assured is, of 
course, not afraid ; for to feel secure has discrep- 
ance with fearing. But, whoever is subject to 
sorrow is alike subject to fear ; for that which 
causes our sorrow when present, we dread while 
impending, and as it approaches. And it thus 
appears that sorrow is repugnant to fortitude. It 
is probable, then, that whoever is subject to sor- 
row is also subject to fear, and to a certain break- 
ing down and abjection of the mind. To the 
man for whom these are incident, it is incident, 
also, to be mastered, and that he should acknowl- 
edge himself, at length, overcome. Whoever is 
capable of this, must be capable of cowardice, and 
of playing the part of the dastard. But these 
things are not incident to the brave man ; so nei- 
ther, indeed, is sorrow. But no man is wise, 
unless he is brave ; therefore the wise are not 
subject to sorrow. Besides, whoever is brave is 
also magnanimous ; and, if magnanimous, there- 
fore invincible ; if invincible, he looks down upon 
human events, and feels himself above them. 
But no man can despise that which is able to 
affect him with sorrow ; by which it appears that 



144 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

the brave are never affected with sorrow. But all 
the wise are brave ; then the wise man is not 
subject to sorrow. And as the eye, when in- 
flamed, is not rightly affected for performing its 
office, and the rest of the organs, or whole body, 
when moved out of order, fails of its office and 
functions, so the disturbed mind is not fit for the 
performance of duty ; but the duty of the mind is, 
to use reason well ; and the mind of the wise man 
is always so affected as to use reason to perfection,, 
Then it is never perturbed. But sorrow is a per- 
turbation of the mind. Therefore the wise man 
is always without it. The same is to be expected 
from the temperate man, whom the Greeks call 
tfwppova; and that virtue rfwcppotfuv^ which, indeed, 
I commonly term temperance and moderation, — 
sometimes also modesty ; but I doubt whether 
that virtue can rightly be called frugality ; which, 
with the Greeks, bears a stricter sense,-— who call 
the frugal xp^W / that is, merely useful men. 
But, frugality is more comprehensive ; for it com- 
prises all abstinence, all innocence ; which has no 
familiar name with the Greeks, but might have 
that of a/3Xa£sia, which, like innocence, signifies 
an affection of the mind that shrinks from hurting 
any one. Thus, frugality contains all the rest of 
the virtues ; for, unless it were such, and had the 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 145 

limited sense which many suppose, the cognomen 
of Lucius Piso, the Frugal, would never have 
been emed so noble. But, because neither the 
mao /ho quits his post through fear, which is 
cowardice ; nor from avarice has refused to restore 
a deposit, which is injustice ; nor through rash- 
ness has ruined the affair he transacted, which is 
folly; — is usually called frugal, it is plain, that 
frugality implies three other virtues, — fortitude, 
justice, prudence : although this is common to 
the virtues ; for they all join hands inseparably. 
Then it remains to be shown that frugality her- 
self is the fourth virtue ; for it appears to be her 
province to curb and restrain the impulses of appe- 
tite ; and, as the stern adversary of cupidity, to 
maintain always, in every thing, a regulated con- 
stancy. Her opponent vice is termed worth- 
lessness. 

Frugality, I presume, is from fruges, the fruits ; 
than which, the earth affords nothing better. 
Worthlessness, nequitia, although it may appear 
an effort, yet let us try, and pass it for sport, if 
we fail ; to derive it from necquidquam, as if 
nothing were to be found in such a man. For 
the same reason, also, he is called a man of naught. 
Thus, the frugal man, or, if you prefer, the mod- 
erate and temperate man, is, of course, also con- 



146 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

stant. The constant man is calm ; he that is 
calm is free of all perturbation ; consequently also 
of sorrow. Hence, Dionysius of Heraclea might 
well animadvert upon that passage in Homer, 
where Achilles complains, as I remember, thus i 

My heart to bursting swells with direst rage, 
When I reflect how I am shorn of lustre : 
Of every beam of glory thus eclipsed. 

Is the hand rightly affected, when swollen ? or 
any other member, when puffed and bloated, is it 
not in bad condition ? Then the mind thus tur- 
gid and tumid is viciously affected. But the 
mind of the wise man is always void of vice; it 
is never inflated, never turgid. Still, the mind of 
the angry man is thus ; then the wise are never 
angry. For, if the wise man were angry, he 
would also covet. For it is proper to the angry 
man to wish to inflict the severest pain upon him 
by whom he thinks himself hurt. But the man 
who covets this, if he obtain his object, is of 
course filled with exultation. Hence it follows 
that he enjoys another's calamity. As this can 
never occur to the wise man, so neither is he sub- 
ject to anger. But, if the wise man were subject 
to sorrow, he would also be subject to anger. 
And, since he is exempt from anger, he will also 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 147 

be void of sorrow. For, if the sage were suscep- 
tible of sorrow, he would also be capable of pity ; 
he would even be liable to envy. This passion I 
call invidentia, because invidia is used in regard 
to a man who is envied ; but invidentia, from 
invidendo^ may be said rightly, and we shall es- 
cape the ambiguity of the word invidia, which 
has its origin from looking too much at the good 
fortune of another, as in the Menalippus. 

Quisnam florem liberum invidit meum? 
My youth's ingenuous bloom who envies ? 

Which Accius has admirably expressed, however 
it appear false Latin. For, as videre, so invidere 
fiorem, is truer than flori. But custom restrains 
us ; the poet asserted his right, and dared to write 
correctly. Thus, to pity and to envy are incident 
to the same character. For the man who grieves 
at the adverse fortune of another, is usually found 
to grieve also at the prosperity of some other ; as 
Theophrastus, deploring the destruction of his 
bosom friend Callisthenes, is wrung by the pros- 
perity of Alexander ; and therefore says that Cal- 
listhenes had struck upon a man of consummate 
power and fortune, but ignorant how to bear him- 
self under a tide of success. Meanwhile, as pity 
is sorrow conceived at another's adversity, so envy 



148 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

is sorrow arising from another's prosperity. And 
thus, whoever is liable to pity is equally capable 
of envy. But it is not incident to the wise man 
to envy, and therefore, of course, not to pity. 
For, if the wise man were accustomed to indulge 
sorrow, he would also, as often, yield to pity. 
The sage is, therefore, a stranger to sorrow. 

Such are the tight sayings and rather crowded 
reasonings of the Stoics. But they are to be 
placed more at their ease, and illustrated a little 
more diffusively ; yet without losing sight of the 
footsteps of those who exalt the tone of reason and 
precept to the bravest, and, as it were, manliest 
pitch. For our friends, the Peripatetics, than 
whom nothing is more eloquent, nothing more 
learned, nothing more grave, have not satisfied 
me at all with their mediocrities of the perturba- 
tions or diseases of the mind. For every evil, 
whatever its mediocrity, is great. It is our object^ 
that, in the wise man, there shall be none at all. 
For, as the body, though but moderately sick, is 
not sound, so this mediocrity of the diseased mind 
is departure from sanity. Therefore our ances- 
tors, admirably in this as in many other instances^ 
from similitude to sick bodies, have named trouble 
solicitude, and grief of mind, or sorrow, cegritudo ; 
that is, sickness. The Greeks designate every 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 149 

perturbation of mind by much the same word ; for 
every turbid motion of the mind is with them 
called TzaAog ; that is, disease. We do better ; for 
sickness of heart, or sorrow, is very similar to 
sickness of the body. As for cupidity, and that 
immoderate joy, or pleasure, which elates and 
transports the mind, they have no resemblance to 
sickness. Even fear is not very much like dis- 
ease, though bordering close upon sorrow ; but, in 
strictness, sickness of body, as well as sorrow of 
mind, only acquire the name when coupled with 
pain. Then it is our business to explain the 
source of this pain, and to trace the efficient cause 
of sorrow, as in the case of sickness in the body. 
For, as physicians consider the cure ascertained 
when they have discovered the cause of the dis- 
ease, so we, having detected the source of sorrow, 
shall find the means of remedy. 

Then the whole cause consists in opinion; and 
not of sorrow alone, but of all the remaining per- 
turbations besides ; which, in kind, are four, - — in 
parts, more numerous. For, since every perturba- 
tion is a motion of the mind either without reason^ 
in revolt from reason, or not obedient to reason, 
and is excited by the opinion either of good of 
of evil, the four perturbations distribute themselves 
equally in pairs. For two spring from the opinion 
13 



150 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

of good : one the ecstasy of pleasure, or immoder- 
ate joy, from the opinion of some great present 
good; the other, an immoderate desire of some 
great reputed good, not regulated by reason, may 
rightly be called either cupidity or lust. Thus, 
these two kinds, excessive joy and cupidity, are 
set in motion by the opinion of good ; as the two 
others, fear and sorrow, by the opinion of evils. 
For, as fear is the opinion of great impending 
evil, sorrow is the opinion of great present evil$ 
and, indeed, the recent opinion of such evil ; so 
that it appears right to be grieved ; that is to say, 
that the mourner shall think it his duty to mourn. 
These perturbations, however, which folly has 
turned loose, like so many furies, upon the life of 
man, are to be resisted to the utmost, and with all 
our resources, if we would pass this what there is 
of life with calmness and serenity. But the rest 
at another time ; at present, let us defeat sorrow, 
if we can. For such should be our aim ; since 
you said it appeared to you it might seize even 
the wise man : which I by no means think ; for it 
is a hideous, wretched, and detestable thing, and 
to be routed at the hazard of all our reserves. 
For, how figures, in your view, that grandson of 
Tantalus, offspring of that Pelops, who formerly 
obtained by stratagem, from his father-in-law 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 151 

Oenomaus, Hippodamia in marriage? that great- 
grandson of Jove himself to be so abject, so 
broken down ! 

Approach me not, he says, my guests ; O, hie ye hence, 
Lest I infect the good by touch or shadow : 
So dire the taint of guilt this body bears. 

Wilt thou, Thyestes, for another's guilt, thus 
doom thyself to banishment from light ? 

What ! that son of Apollo, — dost not think him 
unworthy even of his own father's light ? 

My sunken eyes, deep-caverned in their cells ; 

My haggard form, with maceration shrunk ; 

With bloodless cheeks, where tears have eaten furrows ; 

My tangled beard, with filth and stench defiled, 

Unshorn, o'ercrusts with slime my blackening breast. 

These evils, O most foolish iEeta, thou hast added 
thyself ; they were no part of those which chance 
had brought thee ; and added, too, when that evil 
had grown familiar, and after the swell of grief 
had subsided ; for sorrow, as I shall teach, dwells 
in the opinion of recent evil. But thy mourning 
is for thy kingdom, not for thy daughter ; for her 
thou didst hate, and perhaps justly. The loss of 
kingdom has ruined thy peace of mind. 

But, impudent is the grief of one who consumes 
himself with chagrin, because not permitted to 



152 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

give law to the free. Dionysius the tyrant, it is 
true, taught boys at Corinth, when expelled from 
Syracuse ; so little could he endure the privation 
of authority. But, really, what more impudent 
than Tarquin, who levied war upon those who 
had not supported his pride ? who, finding he 
could not be restored to the kingdom by the arms 
of the Veians, nor by those of the Latins,, betook 
himself, it is said, to Cumae, and wore himself out, 
in that city, with chagrin and sorrow. 

Then, dost think this may occur to the wise 
man, that he should be oppressed with sorrow, — • 
that is, with misery ? For, while every perturba- 
tion is misery, sorrow is misery in torture. Cu- 
pidity has ardour, exulting joy levity, fear humili- 
ation ; but sorrow implies something greater, — - 
infection, torment, prostration, pollution j it lace- 
rates, it gnaws the mind, and consumes it utterly. 
Unless we strip it off, so as to cast it from us, we 
cannot escape misery. And, indeed, it is perfectly 
clear, that, when sorrow exists, the imagination is 
impressed with the idea, that we are involved in 
some great present and pressing evil. But Epicu- 
rus thinks the opinion of evil is, of its own nature, 
sorrow ; so that, whoever looks upon any consider- 
able misfortune as having happened to himself, is 
immediately in sorrow. The Cyrenaics are of 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 153 

opinion, that sorrow is not caused by every evil, 
but only by sudden and unexpected evil. This 
circumstance, no doubt, tends not a little to the 
aggravation of sorrow; for every thing sudden 
appears the more heavy. Hence the following 
lines are justly praised : 

That I begot a mortal well I knew, 
Nor e'er forgot I reared him but to die ; 
And when to Troy I sent him, to defend 
The cause of Greece, was but too well aware 
I sent him not to feasts, but deadly combat. 

Thus, the premeditation of contingent evils breaks 
the shock of their arrival, when you have long 
foreseen them coming. Hence the applause be- 
stowed on this saying of Theseus in Euripides, 
which I shall present, as I have frequently done, 
in our own language : 

Schooled by a sage, deep-versed in human scenes, 
I mused within myself on future woes : 
The pangs of death, the bitterness of exile ; 
Some mountain mass of ill still meditating; 
That, should the hand of fate some scourge inflict. 
The shock might not assail me unprepared. 

What Theseus says, however, that he learned of a 
sage, Euripides speaks in allusion to himself; for 
he had been the scholar of Anaxagoras, who, it is 
13* 



154 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

said, on hearing of the death of his son, remarked, 
"I knew that I begot him mortal," — a voice 
which declares that such things are bitter for 
those with whom they have not been thought 
upon. Then it is clear, beyond doubt, that all 
reputed evils are more severe, if they arrive unex- 
pected ; and, therefore, although this alone is not 
the source of the greatest sorrow, yet, because 
forethought and preparation are of great avail for 
the mitigation of grief, let all human events be 
always meditated. And, no doubt, this is that 
excellent and divine wisdom, — to have fully an- 
ticipated and thoroughly studied all human things j 
to be surprised at nothing, when it happens ; to 
think, before it happens, there is nothing which 
may not occur. 

Wherefore, when most they flourish, all men ought 
Then most to study how they best may hear 
The surliest frowns of fortune, — perils, 
Exile, loss. Let the home-bound traveller 
Always think to find his son in trespass, 
His wife deceased, his darling daughter sick. 
Deemed not unusual things, if such occur, 
They strike the mind prepared with less surprise. 
Whatever good beyond his hope he find, 
All this let him account as so much gain. 

Thus, when Terence has so well expressed what 
he borrowed from philosophy, shall we, from 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 155 

whose fountains this was drawn, not both declare 
it better, and embrace it with more constancy : 
For this is that countenance, always the same, 
which Xanthippe, it is said, used to ascribe to her 
husband Socrates, — that she had always seen 
him go from home and return with the same. 
Nor yet was it such a face as that of Marcus Cras- 
sus the ancient, who laughed, as Lucilius says, 
but once in his whole life : but tranquil and se- 
rene : for so it is transmitted. But, well might 
the looks be always the same, when the mind 
which moulds them underwent no mutation. 
Wherefore, indeed, I accept from the Cyrenaics 
these arms against chance and events, which 
break the impetus of misfortune by long premed- 
itation : and, at the same time, I judge this evil to 
exist in opinion, and not in nature. For, if the 
sting of sorrow were in the event, why should the 
foreseen come without it ? But there is some- 
thing more decisive, that may be said to the same 
point, after I have first discussed the opinion of 
Epicurus, who pronounces all in sorrow who think 
themselves in evils, whether foreseen and expect- 
ed, or familiar and inveterate : for evil is not 
diminished by time, nor alleviated by premedita- 
tion : that it is folly itself to brood upon evil that 
is future, or indeed, perhaps, is not to be at all : 



156 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

that evil is hateful enough when it comes : that, 
to the man who is always musing upon that 
which is to come, his meditation itself becomes an 
eternal evil ; and, should it prove that his appre- 
hensions have been groundless, he burthens him- 
self with a voluntary misery ; and thus, between 
the encounter and contemplation of evil, he is 
always in trouble. But he places the alleviation 
of sorrow in two things : in diverting the mind 
from painful reflections, and turning it to the con- 
templation of cheerful thoughts ; for he thinks 
that the soul can obey reason, and follow at her 
command. Then reason forbids it to dwell upon 
troubles : she draws off the sight that is dim for 
the spectacle of evils ; whence, having sounded 
the retreat, she impels it anew, and incites it to 
the contemplation, and embracing, with absorption 
of soul, those multiplied pleasures, with which, 
through remembrance of the past, and anticipation 
of the future, he thinks the whole life of the wise 
man is replenished. These opinions we have 
sketched in our own style ; the Epicureans ad- 
vance them in theirs. But, let us look at what 
they say, and leave their style to themselves. 

In the first place, they reprehend the premedi- 
tation of future events without reason. For there 
is nothing which blunts the edge of sorrow, and 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 157 

alleviates it so much, as the perpetual considera- 
tion, throughout life, that there is nothing impos- 
sible to happen ; as the meditation of the human 
condition ; as to study the law of life, and how to 
obey it : which brings it to pass, not that we are 
always in trouble, but never. For neither does he 
who contemplates the nature of things, the muta- 
tions of life, the fragility of man, grieve when he 
thinks of these matters, but then most especially 
exercises the office of wisdom. For, by the study 
of human affairs, he at once pursues the proper 
aim of philosophy, and provides himself with a 
triple consolation for adverse events : — first, that 
he has long deemed them possible to arrive; 
which one consideration has the greatest efficacy 
for the extenuation and mitigation of all misfor- 
tunes : and, next, he perceives that human acci- 
dents are to be borne like a man : and, finally, 
because he sees that there is no evil but fault, and 
that there is no fault where that has happened 
which man could not have prevented. For that 
diversion you prescribe, when you bid us with- 
draw from the review of evils, is nugatory. For 
dissembling and oblivion are not at our command, 
while in the clutches of those things we think are 
evils ; they lacerate, they mutilate, insert their 
stings, apply their fires; they suffer us not to 



158 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

breathe. And you bid us to forget, which is 
contrary to nature : you, who would wrest from 
us that succour of nature, — the relief of sorrow 
by the process of time. For that remedy is slow, 
it is true, but still it is great, which results from 
the lapse of duration and days. You bid me 
think of good things — to forget evils. You had 
said something, and, indeed, worthy of a great 
philosopher, had you thought those were good 
things which are the most worthy of man. Py- 
thagoras would say thus to me, or Socrates, or 
Plato : Wherefore art thou dejected ? or why dost 
thou mourn ? why sink, and surrender to fortune ? 
who, perhaps, might pinch or prick thee, she cer- 
tainly could not shiver thy strength. 

There is great force in the virtues. Rouse 
them, if perchance they sleep. Fortitude, their 
foremost, will be here instantly, who will compel 
thee to have so great a mind, that thou wilt hold 
for nothing, and despise all that can happen to 
man. Temperance will attend; the same with 
moderation, called by me a little before frugality : 
she will suffer thee to do nothing that is disgrace- 
ful and unworthy. But what is more disgraceful 
and worthless than an effeminate man I Neither 
will justice permit thee to conduct thyself thus ; 
though she appears to have the least concern with 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 159 

this cause, yet will she say this, — that you are 
doubly unjust ; since you covet what belongs to 
another, and, being a mortal, you claim the immu- 
nities of the immortals ; and think it a hardship 
that you have restored what you received upon 
loan. But what will be your answer to prudence, 
when she says, virtue is content with herself, and 
the road to happiness is found in the straight path 
of wisdom ? For, if virtue depend outwardly, as 
a mere brilliant appendage ; and unless she springs 
from herself, and redound to herself in return, 
and, satisfied with her own, seek nothing beyond ; 
— I see not why she should be so vehemently 
adorned with words, or is so very much to be sought 
for the thing. If to these good things you invite 
me, Epicurus, I come, I follow ; I will have no 
other guide but yourself. I will even, as you bid 
me, forget evil ; and this the more easily, because 
I deem these events not to be classed among evils. 
But you transfer my thoughts to pleasures. To 
what pleasures ? Those of the body, I presume ; 
or such as, on account of the body, may be re- 
volved in thought, whether through recollection 
or hope. Is it not so ? Do I rightly understand 
thy opinion ? For his friends are apt to deny that 
we understand what Epicurus says. This he 
says, and this that roughish old man, Zeno at 



160 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Athens, the ablest of them all, used to maintain 
in my hearings and to enforce at the full pitch of 
his voice : " The man is happy who enjoys pres- 
ent pleasures, and is confident that he shall con- 
tinue to enjoy them for the whole or greater part 
of life, without intervention of pain : or, should 
pain intervene, if extreme, it will be short ; if pro-* 
tracted, it will partake more of good than of eviL 
To have these thoughts makes a man happy ; es- 
pecially if, content with his feast of past pleasures^ 
he is exempt from all fear, whether of death or 
the gods." You have the model of the happy 
life of Epicurus sketched in the very words of 
Zeno ; so it admits of no dispute. What are we 
to think, then ? Could the review and contempla- 
tion of such a life relieve either Thyestes or iEeta, 
whom we have mentioned recently, or Telamon, 
expelled from his country, in exile and in want ? 
an object of wonder, as these verses imply : 

Can this be Telamon, the self-same man 
Whom glory but so late to heaven extolled? 
Whom every eye was eager to behold, 
And for whose face all Greece their faces turned ? 

For if, as Epicurus thinks, the heart sinks with the 
fortune, the medicine is to be sought from those 
grave philosophers of antiquity, not from these 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 161 

Voluptuaries. For what fund of good do they 
profess to offer ? Grant them it is the pinnacle of 
good not to grieve. Although this is not termed 
pleasure. But every thing is not essential now. 
J[s it when transferred to this, that we are to be 
relieved of sorrow ? Grant them also it is the 
worst of evils to suffer pain. Then does a man 
not in pain, though exempt from evil, pass imme- 
diately into possession of the highest good ? Why 
should we elude it, Epicurus, and not acknowl- 
edge that we call by the name of pleasure that 
same thing, which, after well rubbing thy face, 
thou art used to describe ? Are these thy own 
words or not ? In ' that book which contains thy 
whole system, they are certainly found : for I act 
as interpreter, lest any one should think I indulge 
in fiction. " Nor have I any thing, from which to 
form a conception of that good, with abstraction of 
those pleasures which are perceived by the taste ; 
of those which result from the hearing, and music; 
with abstraction also of those which are perceived 
through the eyes from forms, graceful motions ; or 
whatever other pleasures are engendered in the 
whole man, by means of any of the senses what- 
soever. Nor can it with truth be said, that the 
joy of the mind is alone to be ranked among 
goods ; for as I have known this joy of the mind 
14 



162 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

itself, it results from the hope that nature, coming 
to the fruition of what I have mentioned above, 
will be free of pain." These are the very words 
of Epicurus : so that any one may see what pleas- 
ure he was acquainted with. Then a little after : 
il I have often inquired of those who were reputed 
wise men, what they would have left among good 
things, if these were excluded, unless it amused 
them to mouth empty sounds. I could learn 
nothing from them ; who, were they to give over 
spouting their wisdoms, and their virtues, would 
have nothing to say, but in what manner those 
pleasures I have described are attainable.' 7 "What 
follows is in keeping with the same opinion : and 
the whole book, which treats of the chief good, is 
stuffed with similar words and sentiments. Then 
to such a life as this, you would invite that Tela- 
mon, in order to relieve his sorrow ? and if you 
saw any of your friends in profound grief, you 
would offer him a turbot instead of some Socratic 
treatise ? you would counsel him to hear the voice 
of the organ sooner than that of Plato ? you would 
greet his eyes with spectacles of novelty and 
bloom? you would regale his nostrils with the 
bouquet, and kindle aromatic odours ? you would 
bid him be crowned with garlands and with rose ? 
If something still : then at length have you fairly 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 163 

wiped off all his grief? To all this Epicurus must 
plead guilty : or what I have quoted, to the word, 
must be expunged from his book ; or rather the 
whole book must be blotted out. For it is glut- 
ted with pleasures. Then we are to inquire how 
we may relieve the sorrows of a man, who holds 
a language like this : 

Heavens ! now fortune fails me more than lineage. 
To this 1 owed a kingdom : that you may know 
From what a rank, what power, what high estate, 
Her treacherous hand has hurled me headlong down. 

What ? is this man to be dashed with a cup of 
sweet wine, to quiet his complaints, or something 
of that sort ? 

But here I present you with one from another 
quarter, and from the same poet : 

I, source of succours erst, need thine, O Hector. 

We ought to assist him ; for he sues for help. 

What succour shall I seek, or whence obtain? 
What aid or flight can now afford me refuge ? 
Of citadel and city both bereft ; 
To whom repair? to whom should I apply ? 
For whom at home not even the altars stand, 
Of country : broken and dispersed they lie : 
The sacred fanes a prey to conflagration: 
Black stand the lofty walls deformed with smoke, 
And charred the half-burnt beams of crisped fir. 



164 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

You know what follows ; and especially this : 

O Father ! O my country ! O house of Priam ! 
Thee, Temple, fenced with gates of clamorous hinge. 
Standing I saw, pride of barbaric wealth ! 
With vaulted ceilings, rich with fretwork gilt ; 
With gold and ivory royally adorned. 

O exquisite poet ! however neglected by our miv* 
sical enthusiasts of Euphorion. He feels that all 
sudden and unexpected reverses are the most 
severe. And thus having exaggerated the opu- 
lence of the king, which appeared as though des- 
tined to last for ever, what does he add ? 

Devouring flames I J ve seen consume all these, 
And dying Priam, by the sword transpierced, 
Defiling with his blood Jove's altar. 

Beautiful verse ! for it is touching alike in subject, 
in words, and in measure. Let us rescue this 
man from sorrow. In what manner? Let us 
repose him on a couch of down ; let us present 
him the songstress ; let us burn the precious per- 
fumes ; let us offer him the delicious sherbet ; let 
us think, also, of some dainties, that will relish to 
the mouth. These are the good things, then, that 
have power to banish sorrows the most profound ? 
for you said, but a little since, that you had not 
the faintest conception of any other. Thus, I 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 



165 



should concur with Epicurus, that the mind 
should be called from grief to the contemplation 
of good, were it only agreed between us what 
that good is. Some one will say, — What! are 
you capable, then, of supposing that Epicurus in- 
tended those things, and that his opinions were 
libidinous ? Surely I am not ; for I see many 
things are said by him with gravity, — many that 
are excellent. And thus, as I have often said, the 
point at issue is not the purity of his morals, but 
the depth of his penetration. Although he spurn 
those pleasures he has so recently eulogized, still I 
shall bear in mind what appears to him the chief 
good. For he has not put pleasure in the word 
only, but has explained what he intended it 
should signify. " The taste," he says, "and the 
embrace of bodies, and sports and songs, and 
those forms which pleasantly greet the eyes." 
Is this fiction ? Is this false ? I wish I could 
be refuted. For what do I labour, except that 
truth may be brought to light in every question ? 
But the same authority says that pleasure admits 
of no increase beyond the removal of pain ; and 
that the summit of pleasure is to be without pain. 
In a few words are three great faults : one, that 
he contradicts himself; for he has just said he has 
not even a suspicion of any thing good besides the 
14* 



166 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

titillation, as it were, of the senses by pleasure ; 
but now the crown of pleasure is, to be free from 
pain. How can he contradict himself more posi- 
tively ? Another fault : because, when in nature 
there are three things, — one to rejoice, another to 
grieve, a third neither to rejoice nor grieve, — he 
thinks the first and third are the same, and con- 
founds pleasure with not grieving. His third 
fault is common to some others ; because, when 
virtue is the main object of pursuit, and philoso- 
phy has been cultivated for the sole purpose of its 
acquisition, he has separated the chief good from 
virtue. But he praises virtue, and frequently. 
And, in truth, Caius Gracchus, when he had 
made the most prodigal distributions, and had 
exhausted the treasury, yet, in words, he defended 
the treasury. Why should I hear words, when I 
see facts ? That Piso the Frugal had always 
opposed the corn law. When it had passed, how- 
ever, that consular went to receive his corn. 
Gracchus remarked Piso, as he stood in the 
crowd, and, in the hearing of the Roman people, 
asked him how he reconciled it with consistency, 
to apply for corn under a law which he had stren- 
uously dissuaded. "I should have preferred, 
Gracchus," he said, "that you had not been 
pleased to distribute my goods among all men 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 167 

equally; but, if you do it, I claim my share." 
This from the mouth of a grave and wise man, — 
was it less than declaring that, by the Sempronian 
law, the public patrimony had been dissipated ? 
Read the orations of Gracchus ; you will say he is 
the patron of the treasury. Epicurus insists it is 
impossible to live pleasantly without living virtu- 
ously : he denies that fortune has the least hold 
upon the wise man : he prefers plain fare to a 
plentiful table : he asserts there is never a time 
when the wise man is not happy ; — opinions, all 
of them, worthy of a philosopher, but repugnant 
to pleasure. He does not say that pleasure., Let 
him say what pleasure he will. He certainly 
says that wherein not a particle of virtue resides. 
But come, since we are not allowed to understand 
pleasure, may we presume to know something of 
pain ? Then I deny it to belong to him, who 
measures by pain the extreme- of evil, to mention 
the name of virtue. And certain Epicureans, the 
best of men, — -there is not in the world a less 
malicious race, — > complain that I speak against 
Epicurus with earnestness ; forsooth, just as if we 
contended for some honour or dignity. The chief 
good appears to me in the mind — to him in the 
body ; to me in virtue — to him in pleasure. But 
they are for battle ; they shout for the help of 



168 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

neighbours. And they will rally in strength, and 
that forthwith. Am I the man to say, I care not 
to hold for done what they have done ? Where- 
fore should I? Is it the Punic war we deliberate? 
Even upon that question, however, when Marcus 
Cato and Lucius Lentulus took opposite views, 
there was never strife between them. These 
bear themselves too angrily ; especially, when it 
is certainly not a high-spirited opinion which they 
defend, — for which they dare not open their lips 
in the Senate, nor at a meeting of the people, nor 
in presence of the army, nor before the censors. 
But with them at another time ; and, indeed, in 
such a spirit that I will set no contention on foot, 
and will admit all the truths they shall utter. I 
will only admonish them : though it were sove- 
reignly true, that the wise man refers every thing 
to the body ; or, to express it more decently, does 
nothing but what is expedient, or makes every 
thing bend to his own interest : because these 
maxims are not plausible, — that they should enjoy 
under the rose, and desist from the language of 
glory. 

The opinion of the Cyrenaics remains, with 
whom the origin of sorrow is referred to unex- 
pected misfortune. This is very influential, cer- 
tainly ; and I know it appeared so also to Chrysip- 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 169 

pus, that whatever is unforeseen strikes with more 
vehemence. But this circumstance is not the 
whole ; although the sudden approach of the ene- 
my agitates something more than the expected ; 
and a sudden tempest at sea alarms the navigators 
more briskly than that which has been foreseen : 
and it is so with most things. But, when you 
consider with attention the nature of surprises, 
you will find nothing but this,- — that all unex- 
pected things appear greater ; and, indeed, from 
tw^o causes : the first, because there is no time for 
reflecting how great the thing is which has hap- 
pened ; and then, when it appears, that it might 
have been avoided by caution, had it been fore- 
seen. The evil, as though it had been incurred 
through fault, imbitters the sorrow. That such 
is the fact, is declared by time ; which, as it ad- 
vances, so mitigates sorrow, that, with continu- 
ance of the same evils, it is not only alleviated, 
but generally removed altogether. Many Cartha- 
ginians have served at Rome : Macedonians, after 
the capture of king Perseus : I even saw in Pelo- 
ponnesus, when I was a youth, certain Corinthi- 
ans. These might all have united in deploring 
with Andromache : 

Devouring flames I've seen consume all these. 



170 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS 

But perhaps they had already worn out the cho- 
rus. For they bore such an air, speech, and every 
other trait of mein and motion, that you would 
think they were Argives, or Sycionians : and the 
dilapidated walls of Corinth, as they came sud- 
denly in view, affected me more than the Corinth- 
ians themselves, whose minds long reflection 
had covered with the callus of time. We have 
read the book of Clitomachus, which, upon the 
destruction of Carthage, he wrote for the consola- 
tion of his captive fellow-citizens. It contains a 
disputation of Carneades, which he says he had 
noted down at the hearing ; when the proposition 
was ; that, apparently, the wise man would be 
affected with sorrow on the capture of his country. 
What Carneades said to the contrary is found in 
the book. Thus, a medicine so elaborate is ad- 
ministered by a philosopher for present calamity, 
as, when become inveterate, would not even be 
wished for. And, should the same book have 
been sent a few years later, it would not have had 
the healing of wounds, but of scars. For, pro- 
ceeding gradually, and step by step, grief is as- 
suaged ; not that the thing itself is usually altered, 
or can be ; but, what reason ought, experience 
teaches that the troubles are small which had 
appeared great. Then what need, it will be said 3 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 171 

of condolence, or any consolation at all, which we 
commonly offer when we wish to relieve the sor- 
row of the mourner ? for, at such times, it is usual to 
suggest ; " that nothing should appear unexpected.'" 
Or, how w r ill he bear his misfortune better, who 
shall know that something of the kind must hap- 
pen to man ? for this language takes nothing from 
the amount of the evil itself : it only shows that 
nothing has occurred but what should have been 
looked for. Nor yet is this kind of discourse 
without weight in consolation ; but I doubt 
whether it be very considerable. It therefore 
appears that the surprise of events has not the 
effect to create the whole sorrow. The unex- 
pected accident strikes, perhaps, with more force. 
but is not the cause why the misfortune appears 
greater : because it is recent, it appears greater, — ■ 
not because sudden. The mode of ascertaining 
the truth, then, is twofold, not only in regard to 
what appears evil, but also in respect to what 
appears good. For, either we examine the nature 
of the thing itself, and what are its qualities : as 
sometimes of poverty, we lighten its burthens by 
teaching how small and how few are the wants of 
nature ; then, we turn our discourse from the 
subtilty of argument to the illustration of exam- 



172 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

pie ; no\Vj we commemorate Socrates, now Diog- 
enes, now that passage from Caecilius : 

Even under sordid cloak there oft is wisdom. 

For, since the force of poverty is uniform and 
invariable, what reason can be given why it 
should be intolerable for others, when it was pa- 
tiently borne by Fabricius? Then, similar to 
this general method is that mode of consolation 
which teaches that the adverse event is incident 
to humanity. For this argument not only em- 
braces a comprehensive survey of human nature., 
but also intimates, that what others have endured 
and endure must be tolerable. Is poverty the 
question ? many patient poor are commemorated. 
Is it the contempt of honours ? many are recapitu- 
lated who have never borne office, and, on that 
very account, have been all the happier ; and the 
life of those who have preferred private leisure to 
public occupation is reviewed with the praises due 
to their names : nor is that anapestic of a most 
powerful monarch forgotten, who congratulates an 
old man, and declares him fortunate that he has 
lived unknown to fame, and will glide to his 
grave in obscurity. By similar citation of exam- 
ples, bereavements of children are brought into 
view, and the grief of the heart-stricken is alle- 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 173 

viated by the resignation of others. Thus, the 
patience of similar sufferers makes the misfortune 
appear much less than it had been estimated. 
And thus, by degrees, it becomes apparent to the 
reflecting, how extreme is the falsehood of opin- 
ion. To this point is that testimony of Telamon : 

That I begot a mortal well I knew ; 

and of Theseus : 

I mused within myself of future woes ; 

and of Anaxagoras : 

I knew that I begot him mortal: 

for, by long consideration of human events, they 
all had come to see that they were not to be feared, 
by any means, according to vulgar opinion. And, 
really, it appears to me, that much the same effect 
is operated in those who meditate in advance, as 
in those who are healed by the process of days ; 
except, however, that the former are cured by rea- 
son, the latter by nature herself, — pointing them 
to the great remedy there is in finding the evil 
they had thought overwhelming, is not, by any 
means, sufficient to subvert the happiness of life. 

Then, this much is clear, — that the blow falls 
heavier from surprise ; but not, as the Cyrenaics 
15 



174 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS., 

assert, when two equal disasters occur, that only 
the man who is unexpectedly stricken is affected 
with sorrow. And thus some are said, when re- 
minded in grief of our common condition, — of its 
being the law of our birth, that no man could be 
always exempt from evils, — to have been only 
the more afflicted. Wherefore, as I see our Antio- 
chus has written, Carneades used to reprehend 
Ohrysippus for commending these verses of Eu- 
ripides : 

No mortal breathes exempt from pain and sickness* 
Children we follow frequent to the tomb ; 
For those we rear, full oft our hearts are wrung. 
While death is at the door, — the common doom. 
Such things inflict on man a bootless woe. 
All earth to earth must render : like the fruits, 
The life of man is gathered. Such the law, 
Such the stern sentence of necessity. 

He denied that such sort of language had the 
least tendency to alleviate sorrow. For he said it 
was deplorable of itself, that we had fallen upon a 
necessity so cruel ; and, indeed, that such pathetic 
commemoration of the calamities of others could 
tend to console none but the malevolent. But 
certainly it appears far otherwise to me j for the 
necessity of submitting to the human condition 
precludes all fighting, as it were, against God, and 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 175 

admonishes that we are but man, — a reflection 
which contributes essentially to the alleviation of 
grief; and the enumeration of examples is intro- 
duced, not for the gratification of the malevolent, 
but that the mourner may be satisfied he ought to 
bear, what he sees so many to have borne with 
submission and serenity. For they are to be sup- 
ported in all modes, who are ready to fall in ruin, 
and, from the magnitude of grief, are unable to 
sustain themselves. From which, Chrysippus 
thinks sorrow to have been termed Xvtfq, solution, 
as a sort of dissolution of the whole man. This,, 
as I said at first, can be extracted altogether, when 
once the cause of it is discovered ; for it is noth- 
ing but the judgment and opinion of the presence 
and pressure of some great evil. And as pain of 
the body, even its sharpest tooth, is welcomed, 
from the hope of good in perspective, so a life 
spent with honour and lustre affords such conso- 
lation, that they who have lived in this manner 
are either unassailed by sorrow, or this pain of the 
mind touches them very lightly. But, when to 
this opinion of great evil is superadded another, — ■ 
that it is right, and even matter of duty, to be 
afflicted at what has happened, — then, at length, 
that profound perturbation of sorrow is effected. 
From this opinion arise those various and detesta- 



176 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

ble kinds of mourning, — disgusting filth, lacera- 
tions for women of cheeks, breasts, limbs, blows 
upon the head. Hence that Homeric as well as 
Accian Agamemnon : 

Ever and anon, through grief, tearing his untrimmed hair; 

whereupon that sally of Bion : " The foolish king 
pulled out his hair in grief, as if he thought bald- 
ness a cure for sorrow." But these things are all 
done under the persuasion that an imperative duty 
requires it. And thus even iEsehines inveighs 
against Demosthenes, because he had celebrated a 
sacrifice on the seventh day after the death of his 
daughter.. But how eloquently ! how copiously ! 
what authorities he parades! what words he 
hurls ! that you would think restraints were not 
made for the rhetorician. Such things would 
never be applauded, unless it were implanted in 
our minds, that all the good ought to grieve most 
profoundly at the death of their friends. Hence 
it is, that some court solitude in pains of the mind,; 
as Homer says of Bellerophon i 

Grieving, he wandered through the Alean fields. 
Himself his heart devouring, wretched man ! 
Avoiding every trace of human tread. 

And I suspect that Niobe is feigned to have been 
petrified, on account of the eternal silence of he? 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 177 

grief. But Hecuba, it is thought, was feigned to 
have been turned into a bitch, from a certain bit- 
terness and rage of mind. There are others, how- 
ever, to whom it is a resource in grief, to hold 
discourse with solitude herself: as this nurse in 
Ennius : 



Xow all within me yearns the tale to utter, 

That heaven, and earth may know Medeea's wrongs 



Deeming all these things to be right, true, and 
exacted by duty, they perform them in grief; and 
what clearly manifests that it is done from a sense 
of duty, is, that, when they choose to be in mourn- 
ing, if any action of a lively character escape 
them, or any more cheerful sally, they forthwith 
correct themselves to sadness, and blame them- 
selves, as for a fault, for having given their grief a 
respite. Indeed, mothers and masters are accus- 
tomed to chastise children, not only with w r ords, 
but even with stripes, if, during a family mourn- 
ing, any thing a little too playful be said or done 
by them : they force them to mourn. What ! the 
dismission of grief itself, when it takes place, and 
wiien it is seen that nothing is gained by griev- 
ing, — does not the fact declare that the whole 
had been voluntary? How is it with that 
e'ftuTov Tja^poi'iAsvo;, or self-tormentor, of Terence? 
15* 



178 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS, 

Chremes, I've decreed, that whilst I grieve, 

1 expiate, in part, the wrongs I 've done my son. 

He sentences himself to misery : does any one 
decree a thing involuntarily ? 

If not, no evil were too bad, I deem. 

He thinks himself worthy of the worst evil, unless 
he is unhappy. Thus, the evil results, you see ? 
from opinion, — not from nature. What when 
the event itself prohibits grieving ? as, with Ho- 
mer, the daily slaughters and multitude of deaths 
produce a suspension of mourning ; with whom it 
is thus expressed : 

For daily we behold too many fall, 

To leave the liberty of grief to any. 

Hence, 'twere more fit that we entomb the slain 

With firmness, and hold our grief content 

To accept the tribute of diurnal tears. 

Thus, you have power to throw off grief, as a 
time-server, when you will. Is there any time 
we should not serve, since it is left with us, to be 
quit of care and sorrow? It is an admitted fact, 
that they who saw Cneius Pompey falling with 
wounds, alarmed for themselves by that most 
bitter and miserable spectacle, surrounded as they 
saw themselves by the fleet of the enemy, did 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 179 

nothing then but encourage the oarsmen, and 
exert their utmost to obtain safety by flight : after 
they had entered the port of Tyre, then they 
began to be afflicted and to lament. Fear, we 
see, had power to repel sorrow from these j then, 
are we to think reason and true wisdom of less 
avail ? But, what has more efficacy for the sup- 
pression of sorrow than to understand that it is of 
no use, and that we indulge it in vain ? Then, if 
it can be dismissed, it can be refused admittance. 
Therefore it must be acknowledged, that sorrow 
is entertained by the will and by the judgment. 
And this, moreover, is shown by the patience of 
those who, having often passed through many 
troubles, bear whatever happens with more ease, 
and are thought to have rendered themselves proof 
against fortune ,; as he had in Euripides : 

If day had now first shone upon me sad, 

And I not sailed so turbulent a sea, 

There had been cause of grieving; as the colt, 

To reins unused, with agitation thrills, 

When first he feels their new and sudden touch: 

But, now subdued, I 'm tame to misery. 

Since the mere weariness of misery, then, renders 
sorrows more mild, we cannot but perceive that 
the thing itself and apparent cause is not the foun- 
tain of grief. Very profound philosophers, yet not 



180 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

arrived at perfect wisdom, — do they not under- 
stand that they are in the worst of evils ? for they 
are not wise ; and there is no greater evil than 
insipiency : and yet they do not mourn. Why 
so ? Because, to evils of this kind, that opinion is 
not affixed ; it is right and proper, and an essen- 
tial duty, to be affected with sorrow, because thou 
art not wise. For such is the opinion we have 
devised for that sorrow to which grief attaches, — 
the most severe of all. Therefore Aristotle, re- 
proving the ancient philosophers for asserting that 
philosophy had been carried to perfection by their 
genius, says they were either supremely foolish or 
supremely vain ; but, from the great progress it 
had made in a few years, he saw that philosophy 
would, in a short time, be thoroughly explored. 
But Theophrastus is said, when dying, to have 
accused nature for having given so short a life to 
man, to whom it was so important to live long, 
and longevity to the deer and the raven, to whom 
it was of no consequence ; which, had it been 
imparted to man, the effect would have been, that, 
by the perfection of all arts, human life would 
have flourished in the fruition of universal science. 
He therefore complained that, just as he began to 
approach this condition himself, he was extin- 
guished. What ! does not every best and gravest 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 181 

of other philosophers acknowledge his ignorance 
of very many things ? and. that he has much to 
learn with all diligence and effort? and yet, 
though perfectly aware they are groping in mid- 
folly; than which nothing is worse, they are not 
oppressed with sorrow ; for there is no admixture 
of the opinion that grief is a duty. How was it 
with those who held that man is not to mourn ? 
as Ciuintus Maximus, when he buried a consular 
son ; as Lucius Paullus, though he had lost two 
sons within a few days ; as Marcus Cato, at the 
death of a son, praetor elect ; as the rest whom we 
have collected in the Consolation : what else was 
it that appeased them, but the persuasion that 
grief and mourning were not the part of man? 
Thus, others, because they think it right, abandon 
themselves to sorrow ; these, because they thought 
it wrong, repelled it : whence it is evident, that 
sorrow exists not in nature, but in opinion. It is 
argued on the other side, — who is there mad 
enough to grieve from his own choice ? Nature 
is the author of grief; which even your OAvn 
Grantor concedes it is right to indulge ; for it 
presses, it urges, and is irresistible. And thus 
that Oileus in Sophocles, who had formerly con- 
soled Telamon for the death of Ajax, on hearing 



182 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

of the death of his own, is inconsolable ; of whose 
altered mind this is said : 

Nor lives the man with wisdom such endowed, 
However skilled another's woes to soothe, 
If altered fortune turn on him her bolts, 
Will not be stunned by such a sudden ruin, 
And shame the precepts he had others taught. 

Thus they endeavour to make it appear, by this 
reasoning, that it is altogether impossible to com- 
bat nature : but even they admit that more con- 
siderable sorrows are entertained than nature re- 
quires. Then where is the madness, that we 
also should exact as much from others ? But the 
causes of indulging grief are several. In the first 
place the opinion of evil : the sight of wiiich, if 
thought real, inevitably produces sorrow. And 
then they think it grateful to the dead, if they 
mourn them deeply. A certain womanish super- 
stition is superadded ; for they think the immor- 
tal gods will be more easily appeased, if they 
confess themselves stunned and prostrate, when 
struck by their blows. But the greater number 
do not see the inconsistency of these things. 
They praise those who die with calmness ; while 
those who should bear the death of another with 
calmness, they would think worthy of censure. 
As though it were at all possible, however asserted 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 183 

in amatory rhapsody, that any one should love 
another better than himself. Excellent is this : 
and, if you inquire, right also and true, that we 
love all who are deservedly dear to us, as much as 
we do ourselves, but that we should more is to- 
tally impossible. Nor indeed is it to be wished in 
friendship, that he love me, more than himself; or 
I him, more than myself. An utter confusion of 
life and all its duties would be the result, if it 
were thus. But of this at another time. At 
present it is sufficient if we abstain from charging 
our misery to the loss of our friends : lest we love 
them more than they would wish, if they knew it> 
certainly more than we love ourselves. For as to 
their saying that the most are not relieved at all 
by consolations, and that even the consolers 
acknowledge themselves unhappy, when misfor- 
tunes assail them in turn ; both are easily solved. 
For such things are not imputable to nature, but 
to fault. But an invective against folly, would 
not be a short one. For they who are inconsola- 
ble invite their own misery ; and they who support 
their own misfortunes with less calmness than 
they have recommended to others, are not more 
out of the way than the generality, who, though 
lovers of money, condemn the avaricious; and, 
though worshippers of glory, reprehend the ambi- 



184 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

tious. For it is the characteristic of folly, to have 
eyes for the faults of others, and blindness for its 
own. But no doubt this is the grand test ; since 
no one denies that sorrow is removed by length of 
date ; this is to be ascribed not to the footsteps of 
time, but to the force of long continued reflection. 
For if the man and the thing are the same, how 
can any thing have been altered in the grief, 
where no change has happened in the event la- 
mented, nor in him who laments it ? Therefore 
long consideration, that there is no evil in the 
accident, is the cure of grief ; not the long lapse of 
time itself. Here they arrive with their mediocri- 
ties ; which, if they are natural, what need is 
there of consolation? For nature herself will 
appoint the measure. But if they are to be grad- 
uated by opinion, away with opinion altogether. 
I think it sufficiently shown, that sorrow is the 
opinion of present evil, upon which opinion is 
engrafted a persuasion that sorrow is to be enter- 
tained as a point of duty. It is rightly added to 
this definition by Zeno, that this opinion of pres- 
ent evil be recent ; but they give such interpreta- 
tion to this word, as to include for recent, not only 
what has happened lately, but so long as there 
remains in the reputed evil a certain force, which 
flourishes and has a sort of verdure, so long it is to 



THE ALLEVIATION OT SORROW. 185 

be deemed recent : as that Artemisia, wife of Mau- 
solus, king of Caria, who erected that noble sepul- 
chre at Halicarnassus, lived in grief so long as she 
lived, and was even carried off by it, in a lan- 
guishment. For her, this opinion was daily re- 
cent ; and it is then, finally, not termed recent, 
when, exhausted by age, it has withered away. 

Then the duties of the consoler are these : — to 
remove sorrow altogether; or to appease and re* 
duce it to the utmost ; or to check it, and prevent 
its further progress ; or to divert the mind to other 
objects. There are some who think the sole duty 
of the consoler is, to show that the cause of the 
sorrow is not an evil at all ; and it appeared thus 
to Cleanthes. There are others who lead off the 
mind from evils to good; as Epicurus. There 
are those who think it sufficient to teach, that 
nothing unexpected has happened, - — nothing new. 
But Chrysippus thinks it the main point in consol- 
ing, to eradicate that opinion from the mourner, if 
he considers himself in the discharge of a just and 
sacred duty. There are some, also, who combine 
all these modes of consolation ; for some are im- 
pressed by one, and some by another ; so we have 
thrown them about all into one in the Consola* 
tion ; for the mind was in tumour, and attempted, 
in that, every method of remedy. But time is no 
16 



186 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

less required for the mind than for the body ; as 
that Prometheus of iEschylus, when it was said 
to him, — 

But thou, Prometheus, I think, dost hold 
That reason has a remedy for anger, 

answers, — 

If he who hastes the medicine to apply, 

Hit not with eager hand the throbbing wound. 

Then, in consolations, the first remedy will be ; to 
teach that there is either no evil at all, or that it 
is extremely small ; the next, to treat of the com- 
mon condition of life, and, in particular, of that of 
the mourner, provided it afford a subject ; the 
third, that it is consummate folly to consume with 
a vain grief, when you understand that it can 
avail you nothing. Cleanthes consoles even the 
wise man, who needs no consolation. For, if you 
can persuade the mourner that nothing is evil that 
is not wrong, you will remove not only his grief, 
but his folly. The time, however, is unpropitious 
for teaching. And yet, Cleanthes appears to me 
to have been scarce sufficiently aware that sorrow 
may sometimes spring even from that source, 
which he admits himself for the worst of evils. 
For, what shall we say ? when Socrates, as we 
are told, had persuaded Alcibiades that he had no 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 187 

part of man, and that there was nothing to distin- 
guish Alcibiades, born to the most exalted rank, 
from the vilest outcast of human society ; and 
when Alcibiades was afflicted, and implored Soc- 
rates, with tears, that he would guide him to vir- 
tue, and weed out his vices ; — what shall we say, 
Cleanthes ? was there no evil in that thing which 
affected Alcibiades with sorrow ? What ! how is 
it with that doctrine of Lycon ? who, in order to 
extenuate sorrow, says it is excited by insignifi- 
cant things, the derangements of fortune and the 
body, — not by evils of the mind. Then what? 
did not that which grieved Alcibiades consist of 
the evils and vices of the mind ? As to the con- 
solation of Epicurus, enough has been said al- 
ready. Nor is absolute reliance due to this conso- 
lation, however usual, and often useful, — " Thou 
art not alone." This is useful, as I have said, but 
not always, nor to all ; for there are some whom 
it revolts ; but much depends on the manner of 
exhibition. For it is better to show how they 
have suffered who have suffered wisely, than to 
dwell too much on what the calamities were they 
severally endured. That of Chrysippus is by far 
the firmest, as to its truth, but difficult in the hour 
of sorrow. Great is the enterprise to satisfy the 
mourner that he grieves by his own judgment, 
and because he deems it his duty. No doubt 3 



188 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

then, as in causes we do not always use the same 
state of the case, as we term the forms of plead- 
ing, but conform it to the time, the person, and to 
the nature of the controversy ; so, in the treatment 
of sorrow, we are to consider what species of con- 
solation is best adapted to the case before us. 

But our discourse has wandered — I know not 
by what means — from the subject proposed by 
thee ; for thy query related to the wise man, to 
whom nothing can appear evil that is void of tur- 
pitude ; or, if an evil, so small that it is trampled 
down by wisdom, and scarcely appears : who 
fashions nothing after opinion, and embraces it 
for sorrow : neither does he think it right to afflict 
himself as much as possible, and be wasted with 
grief; than which nothing can be more wrong. 
Yet reason taught — at least, as it appeared to me 
— that although it is not the special object of the 
present inquiry, to ascertain whether any thing 
that is not shameful is to be reputed an evil, yet 
that we should satisfy ourselves, that whatever 
evil there may be in sorrow is not from nature, 
but incurred by our free judgment, and through 
error of opinion. We have treated, however, that 
kind of sorrow which is, of all others, the greatest ; 
so that, if relieved of this, we should scarce think 
the remedies for the rest worth seeking. For 
there are certain precepts in regard to poverty ; 



THE ALLEVIATION OF SORROW. 189 

certain others for a life without glory and distinc- 
tion, which it is usual to recapitulate ; and, sep- 
arately, there are certain schools for exile, for ruin 
of country, servitude, infirmity, blindness, and 
every casualty that is usually comprised under 
the name of calamity. These the Greeks dis- 
tribute into several schools and separate books ; 
for they want work : although the disputations are 
delightful. And yet, as the physician, who has 
the whole body in charge, when even the mi-^ 
nutest part is in pain, applies himself to cure it, so 
philosophy, after removing universal sorrow, if 
some error should spring up elsewhere, if poverty 
bite, if reproach tingle, if exile overshadow with 
gloom, or of what has been enumerated above 
should any thing exist, and if there are separate 
consolations for each, which you may have when 
you will : but, under them all, we are to have 
recourse to the same fountain : that all sorrow is 
far remote from the wise man, because it is empty, 
because it is fruitless, because it is not from na- 
ture, but from judgment, but from opinion, but 
from a certain invitation to grieving, when we 
have resolved it to be our duty. After the ab- 
straction of what is altogether voluntary, that 
profound sorrow of mourning will be removed ; 
twinges and certain little contractions of the mind 
16* 



190 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

will be left. This part, if they will, they may 
call natural, so long as the name of sorrow be 
excluded : stern, disgusting, dismal, which, by no 
possible means, can reside or inhabit where wis- 
dom dwells. But there are fibrils to the roots of 
sorrow, — O how many ! and how bitter ! which, 
having hewn down the trunk, are all to be crush- 
ed, and, if necessary, in separate disputations ; for 
we abound in leisure, such as it is. But there is 
one method for all the sorrows, however numerous 
their names. For, as to envy, is a part of sorrow, 
so is to rival, to detract, to pity, to be anxious, to 
grieve, to mourn, to be troubled, to be solicitous, 
to regret, to be chagrined, to be afflicted, to de- 
spair. All these the Stoics define ; and the words 
above mentioned express different ideas, and do 
not, as it appears to us, signify the same things, 
but have shades of difference, which we shall 
touch, perhaps, in another place. These are 
those fibrils of the roots, which, as I said before, 
are to be pursued, and all so pulverized, that not 
one can ever be extant. A great and a difficult 
work ! who denies ? But what is there excellent 
that is not arduous ? but yet philosophy professes 
to accomplish it. Only let us submit to her treat- 
ment. But this is all at present. The rest is at 
your service, as often as you will, both here and 
elsewhere. 



BOOK IV. 



ON THE PERTURBATIONS. 

While I am wont, my dear Brutus, in many 
respects, to admire the genius and virtues of our 
countrymen, so especially in those studies which, 
coming very late to be relished, they have trans- 
ferred to this city from Greece. For when, from 
its first origin, by royal statutes, and partly also 
by laws, the auspices, the ceremonies, elections, 
appeals, council of the Fathers, the distribution of 
the horse and foot, the whole military system, 
were divinely constituted ; then, after the republic 
was freed from royal domination, an admirable 
progress, and incredible strides, were made towards 
excellence in every kind. Neither, indeed, is this 
the place to speak of the customs and institutions 
of our ancestors, nor the discipline and constitution 
of the state. These have been treated by us with 
sufficient care in other places, and especially in 



192 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

the six books we wrote of the Republic. But 
when considering this point of literary studies, 
many things occur to me, which render it probable 
that these were introduced from abroad ; and not 
invited only, but also retained and cultivated. 
For they had, almost before their eyes, Pythago- 
ras flourishing in wisdom and celebrity, who was 
in Italy during the times when Lucius Brutus, 
the illustrious author of thy nobility, established 
the independence of his country. But, as the 
doctrine of Pythagoras flowed far and wide, it 
appears to me to have diffused itself into this city ; 
and this is probable, alike from conjecture, and 
from certain vestiges. For who can think, when 
Greece called the Great flourished in Italy, with 
most powerful and populous cities, and when in 
these the name, first of Pythagoras himself, and 
then of the Pythagoreans afterwards, sounded so 
high, that the ears of our countrymen were closed 
to the most eloquent voice of wisdom ? Indeed, I 
think it was through their admiration for Pythago- 
ras, that Numa the king was reputed a Pythago- 
rean by posterity ; for, knowing the system and 
institutions of Pythagoras, and having received 
from their ancestors the renown of that king for 
wisdom and integrity, but ignorant, through dis- 
tance, of ages and times, they inferred that, be- 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 193 

cause he excelled in wisdom, he was the disciple 
of Pythagoras. And so much for conjecture. 

As to vestiges of the Pythagoreans, though 
many might be traced, we shall notice but few, 
because it is not our proper object at the present 
time. For, as they are said to have delivered 
certain of their more recondite precepts in verse, 
and, after the intensity of study, to have restored 
their minds to tranquillity by music, both vocal 
and instrumental, Cato, the highest of authorities, 
has said, in the Origins, it was the custom of our 
ancestors, at feasts, for each guest, in turn, to sing 
to the flute the exploits and virtues of illustrious 
men. Hence it is clear, that both the songs and 
the musical notes were then written and set down; 
although this much is declared by the laws of the 
Twelve Tables, — that it was already then com- 
mon to publish songs ; for they make it unlawful 
to injure another by such compositions. Nor, in- 
deed, is it an argument of unpolished times, that. 
in religious processions, and at the feasts of the 
magistrates, the band of musicians was indispensa- 
ble : and this trait is appropriate to the discipline 
of which we are speaking. Even that poem of 
Appius Caecus, which Panaetius extols so highly 
in a letter to Quintus Tubero, I think has a relish 
of the Pythagoreans. There are many things 



194 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

also in our institutions derived from them, which 
I omit, that we may not appear to have borrowed^ 
what we are thought to have invented. But, to 
return to our argument, in how short a time how 
many poets, and how great ! but what orators 
have existed ! that it is easily seen, our country- 
men were capable of all they attempted, the mo- 
ment they began to will it. But of other studies, 
if necessary, we will speak elsewhere, and have 
often spoken. That of wisdom, although ancient, 
no doubt, with our countrymen, yet, before the 
age of Scipio and Laelius, I have not found any 
that I could name. When they were young, I 
see that Diogenes the Stoic, and Carneades the 
Academic, were delegated to our city by the 
Athenians, in the character of ambassadors ; who, 
never having had any share in the management of 
that republic, and originating, the one from Baby- 
lon, the other from Cyrene, would certainly not 
have been summoned from the schools, and elect- 
ed to that dignity, unless there had been, at that 
time, an earnest desire of learning among some of 
our principal men. These, while they consigned 
to letters the rest of things, — some the civil law, 
some their orations, others the annals of ancestors, 
— this most ample of all arts, the discipline of 
living rightly, they prosecuted more in practice 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 195 

than letters. Hence there remain no written 
monuments, or very few, of that true and elegant 
philosophy which, derived from Socrates, has re- 
mained with the Peripatetics as yet, and the same 
asserted by the Stoics in a different manner, while 
the Academics weigh their controversies. But, 
while they were silent, whether from the magni- 
tude of things, or the occupation of men, or, per- 
haps, from the doubt if they could season their 
sentiments to the taste of the uneducated, the 
voice of one Caius Amafinius was not: on the 
publication of whose books, the excited multitude 
betook themselves very generally to his mode of 
doctrine ; whether because it was learned without 
effort, or won by the fascinating attraction of 
pleasure, or even because they had nothing better, 
were fain to accept of such as there was. But, 
after Amafinius, rival swarms of the same sect, 
writing volume upon volume, have occupied all 
Italy ; and the sufficient proof that their doctrines 
are superficial, because they are easily learned, and 
admired by the ignorant, passes with them for a 
confirmation of their system. But let every man 
maintain what he thinks : for judgments are free : 
we shall adhere to our principle, and, bound to no 
system so as to owe implicit obedience to its laws 
in philosophy, we shall always, in every question, 



x96 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

earnestly seek for what shall appear the most 
probable : which, as we had often done elsewhere, 
so, lately at the Tusculan we did most sincerely. 
And, having exhibited the disputations of three 
days, this book will include what followed on the 
fourth. For, when we had descended to the 
lower walk, as we had done the preceding days, 
the affair was managed as follows : 

Marcus. Let any one say, if he will, what 
subject he would like to hear discussed. 

Auditor. It does not appear to me, that the wise 
man can be void of all perturbation. 

Marcus. At least from sorrow, it appeared 
from our disputation of yesterday ; unless, per- 
haps, you assented through complaisance. 

Auditor. Not at all ; for your reasoning ap- 
peared to me unanswerable. 

Marcus. Then you are not of the opinion that 
the wise man is subject to sorrow ? 

Auditor. My mind rejects the thought. 

Marcus. But, if that perturbation cannot agi- 
tate the breast of the sage, there is none that 
could. For what should ? is it fear ? But fear is 
caused by the same objects absent, that, when 
present, give birth to sorrow ; therefore the remov- 
al of sorrow is the expulsion of fear. There re- 
main but two perturbations: the delirium of joy, 



THE PERTURBATIONS* 197 

and desire ; which, if they never perturb the sage, 
the mind of the wise man is a perpetual calm. 

Auditor. So I perceive, most clearly. 

Marcus. Then which would you prefer ? shall 
we make sail at once, or shall we, as if clearing 
the harbour, have recourse to the oars for a little ? 

Auditor. What does that imply ? for I do not 
understand. 

Marcus. Because Chrysippus and the Stoics, 
when they treat of the perturbations, occupy the 
most of their discourse in distinguishing and de- 
fining them ; and crowd into a narrow space what 
they have to say upon healing and curbing the 
turbulence of the mind. But the Peripatetics fur- 
nish precepts for appeasing the mind in profusion, 
while they omit the thorns of division and defini- 
tion. My query, then, was, whether I should 
spread the sail of discourse immediately, or propel 
it a little, at first, with the oars of the dialecti- 



cians 



p 



Auditor. In the mode you propose ; for thus 
our whole inquiry will acquire the greater perfec- 
tion from both. 

Marcus. It is, indeed, the better way: but 
you will seek explanation afterwards, should any 
thing appear rather obscure. 

Auditor. I will, certainly. But you commonly 
17 



198 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

express even these obscure matters more clearly 
than the Greeks. 

Marcus. I will endeavour at least : but there 
is need of attention, lest if any one thing escape, 
the whole should slide away. Since what the 
Greeks term na&ij, it seems more pleasant to call 
perturbations, than diseases, I shall follow that 
ancient model, first traced by Pythagoras, but 
adopted by Plato, who divide the soul into two 
parts, the one possessed of reason, the other not. 
In the part that shares reason, they lodge tranquil- 
lity, that is, a placid and calm constancy ; in the 
other, the turbid agitations both of anger and 
cupidity, contrary and inimical to reason. Let 
this be the fountain, then. But in describing 
these perturbations, let us use the definitions, and 
partitions of the Stoics, who appear to me to have 
considered this question with the utmost pene- 
tration. 

Then according to the definition of Zeno, who 
calls it Tta&og, a perturbation is a commotion of the 
mind adverse to reason, contrary to nature ; some, 
more briefly, term it a more vehement appetite ; 
but more vehement, is what departs wider from 
the constancy of nature, as they would have us 
understand. Meanwhile, the parts of perturba- 
tions spring as they think, from two reputed 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 199 

goods, and two reputed evils, and therefore are 
four. From good, desire and joy ; joy from good 
present, desire refers to the future : from evils they 
derive fear and sorrow ; fear from future, sorrow 
from present evils ; for what are feared coming, 
create sorrow when arrived. Joy and desire, 
meanwhile, reside in the opinion of goods : desire 
being hurried vehemently and ardently towards 
what has the appearance of good : joy, as having 
acquired something greatly desired, is elated and 
leaps. For by nature all that seems good, is 
pursued : all that appears the contrary, is avoided. 
Wherefore, no sooner does the prospect offer itself 
of any thing which has the appearance of good, 
than nature herself impels to its acquisition, 
When this is done with constancy and prudence, 
such a desire is called by the Stoics, ^sb^atg ; we 
term it will. They think it known only to the 
wise man, and define it thus : Will is that which 
desires any thing with reason : the passion, which, 
in spite of reason, kindles more fiercely, is lust, or 
unbridled cupidity, which is found in all fools. 
In like manner, when we are moved as in the 
possession of some good, this emotion also is 
double. For when the mind is moved placidly, 
and constantly, with reason, it takes the name of 
satisfaction ; but when the mind exults vainly, and 



200 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

with effusion, then it may be called giddy, or 
excessive joy ; which they define an elation of 
mind without reason. And as we naturally seek 
good things, so by nature we decline evils ; this 
recoil, when authorized by reason, has the appel- 
lation of caution, and is found in the sage only ; 
the same, without reason, however, attended with 
an abject and crippled desertion of mind, is named 
fear. Thus, fear is caution in defiance of reason. 
Moreover, sorrow is proper to fools, with which 
they are affected in supposed evils, and, in disobe- 
dience to reason, depress and contract their minds. 
Hence, this is the first definition ; that sorrow is a 
contraction of mind, with reason for adversary. 
Thus the perturbations are four, three of con- 
stancy, because to sorrow no constancy is opposed. 
But they pronounce all the perturbations the proge- 
ny of opinion, and of the judgment. Hence they 
define them compactly, that it may be seen at 
once how vicious they are, and how much in our 
power. Then sorrow is the recent opinion of 
present evil, where it appears right to deject and 
contract the mind : joy, the recent opinion of pres- 
ent good, where it appears right to be transported : 
fear, the opinion of impending evil, which appears 
insupportable : desire, the opinion of good to ar- 
rive, and would now be useful, if present, and 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 201 

enjoyed. But the judgments and opinions which 
I have said are the sources of the perturbations, 
they say are authors, not of these perturbations 
alone, but also of what these perturbations effect : 
as sorrow effects a certain sting of grief; fear, a 
sort of escape and flight of the mind ; joy, an in- 
toxication of hilarity; desire, headlong appetite. 
But the persuasion and opinion included in all the 
above definitions they pronounce to be an imbecile 
assent to the false. 

But to each of the perturbations they subjoin its 
kindred parts, which are several : as, to sorrow ; 
envy, [invide?itia, — a word we prefer to invidia, 
though less familiar ; for invidia refers either to 
the envious or the envied,] emulation, detraction, 
pity, anguish, mourning, wailing, trouble, grief, 
lamentation, solicitude, chagrin, affliction, despond- 
ency, and the rest of the same sort. Under fear, 
they subjoin sloth, shame, terrour, timidity, dis- 
may, consternation, confusion, dread. Under the 
voluptuary head, malevolence, — that enjoys the 
troubles of another, — delight, vaunting, and the 
like. Under desire, anger, resentment, hatred, 
enmity, discord, indigence, longing, and the rest 
of the class of cupidity. These they define thus : 
Envy is sorrow indulged for another's prosperity, 
which is of no prejudice to the envier ; for, if any 
17* 



202 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS, 

one grieves at the success of another, by whom he 
is injured, he is not rightly said to envy ; as of 
Agamemnon in regard to Hector ; but he to whom 
another's good fortune is no disadvantage, and 
who yet grieves that he enjoys it, undoubtedly 
envies. But Emulation is used in a double sense ; 
so that it passes for the name of a merit and a 
vice ; for even the imitation of virtue is called 
emulation : but we give it no such import here ; 
for that is praiseworthy. But the emulation of 
rivalship is sorrow conceived by the defeated can- 
didate, at seeing another enjoy the object of com- 
petition. But Detraction I would have be under- 
stood as a sort of jealousy, or sorrow at another's 
enjoying also what had been earnestly desired by 
the jealous. Pity is sorrow from seeing another 
in unmerited misfortune ; for no one is moved to 
compassion at the condign fate of parricides and 
traitors. Anguish is the pressure of sorrow. 
Mourning is sorrow for the bitter extinction of 
one much beloved. Wailing is sorrow with tears. 
Trouble is laborious sorrow. Grief, excruciating 
sorrow. Lamentation, sorrow with shrieks. So- 
licitude is thoughtful sorrow. Chagrin is perma- 
nent sorrow. Affliction is sorrow with vexation 
to the body. Despondency, sorrow without hope. 
But the chapter of fear they define thus : — 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 203 

Sloth is the fear of labour to ensue : Shame and 
Terrour, the shocks of fear ; whence shame is fol- 
lowed by blushes, — terrour by paleness, tremour, 
and chatter of the teeth : Timidity, the fear of evil 
at hand : Dismay, fear, with desertion of mind ; 
hence this line of Ennius : 

Then dismay all wisdom from my soul disgorges : 

Consternation, the stupefaction of fear, and the 
companion, as it were, of dismay : Confusion, fear 
that banishes memory and reflection : Dread, pro- 
found and durable fear. 

The voluptuary class they define in this man- 
ner : — Malevolence is pleasure without emolu- 
ment, at the misfortune of another : Delight is the 
pleasure that soothes the mind from the sweetness 
of sounds ; and like this from the ear, are those 
from the eyes, the touch, the smell, the taste; 
which are all of one kind, — pleasures, as it were, 
liquefied for bathing the soul : Vaunting, pleasure 
in exultation, uplifting itself with insolence. 

But what are ranked under desire, they define 
thus : — Anger is the lust of punishing the author 
of injury which appears unprovoked : Resentment 
is kindling anger, and of recent growth ; which 
the Greeks call ^v^avg : Hatred, inveterate anger : 
Enmity, anger watching its time for revenge : Dis- 



204 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

cord, a more bitter anger, a hatred that is pro- 
found, and fills the whole heart : Indigence, an 
insatiable covetousness : Longing, an earnest desire 
of seeing one who is not yet present. They dis- 
tinguish this also, — that there is a coveting of 
the speech of people, which dialecticians call 
xajrjyogijfiaTa ; as, to be reputed to have riches, to 
enjoy honours. Indigence is of the things them- 
selves ; as of honours, of wealth. 

But they say the fountain of all perturbations is 
intemperance ; which is a revolt from the whole 
intellect, and from right reason, and so total a 
defection of the appetites from their rightful sove- 
reign, that they neither can be ruled, nor held in 
check. Thus, as temperance appeases the appe- 
tites, and brings them to a cheerful compliance 
with the dictates of reason, and enforces the delib- 
erate judgments of the mind, so its enemy, — in- 
temperance, — inflames, excites, and convulses the 
whole state of the mind; and thus the sorrows, 
the fears, and all the remaining perturbations, are 
its progeny. 

As, when the blood becomes corrupt, or the 
phlegm or the bile superabound, disease and sick- 
ness are produced in the body, so the tumult of 
depraved opinions, and the conflicts which result 
from their repugnancy among themselves, destroy 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 205 

the sanity of the mind, and convulse it with mala- 
dies. But the first morbid result of the perturba- 
tions are diseases, which they call aw^wara, and 
those antipathies, which are the opposites of these 
diseases, which are attended with an unreasonable 
aversion and disgust towards certain things ; and 
then sicknesses, which are termed by the Stoics 
aggoocnr^uaTa, and the antipathies and loathings 
which are the opposites to these. Here is a waste 
of labour, which is lavished by the Stoics, and 
especially Chrysippus, in running the parallel be- 
tween the diseases of the body and those of the 
mind ; which passing over, as not at all necessary, 
let us fix our attention on things which have sub- 
stance. Let it be understood, then, that perturba- 
tion, from the inconstant and tumultuous tossing 
of opinions, is always in agitation ; but, when this 
fever and excitement of the mind becomes invet- 
erate, and has ' seated itself, as it were, in the 
nerves and circulations, then break out those dis- 
eases and sicknesses, and those disgusts, which 
are the contraries of these diseases and sicknesses. 
These I refer to, are distinguished one from the 
other in thought, but, in effect, are coupled to- 
gether, and are the offspring of passion and posses- 
sion, of desire and joy. For, when money is cov- 
eted, and reason, the Socratic physician, as it 



206 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

were, be not immediately consulted, that she may 
cure this cupidity, the infection glides into the 
veins, seizes upon the entrails, — disease and sick- 
ness ensue ; which, once become inveterate, it is 
impossible to eradicate : the name of this malady 
is avarice. In like manner, the rest of the dis- 
eases ; as, the thirst of glory, the passion for 
women, which, in Greek, is ydoy wsm ; and other 
similar diseases and sicknesses have their birth. 
But the opposites to these are thought to take 
origin from fear ; as, the hatred of women, such 
as we find it exhibited in the [Mcroyww, or woman- 
hater, of Attilius; as of the whole human race, 
exemplified in Timon, called ^aavOgconogj the mis- 
anthrope ; as inhospitality does : — all which mala- 
dies of the mind spring from a certain fear of those 
things which they avoid and hate. 

But they define sickness of the mind as an 
inherent, deep-seated, and vehement opinion of a 
thing not desirable, as if desirable in the extreme. 
But the malady of disgust they define, an inher- 
ent, deep-seated, and vehement opinion of a thing 
not undesirable, as if to be avoided. This hallu- 
cination, however, results from a persuasion of the 
mind, that it knows what it does not know. 

Under the head of sickness, they arrange such 
maladies as avarice, ambition, gallantry, singular* 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 207 

ity. gluttony, drunkenness, the worship oi the 
palate, and such like. But avarice is an inherent. 
deep-seated, and vehement opinion of money, as 
if it were desirable in the extreme : and the defi- 
nition is similar for the rest of the class. But the 
definition of antipathies is of this sort. — that in- 
: itality is an inherent, deep-seated, and vehe- 
ment opinion oi a guest, as being to be shunned 
at all hazards : and the definition is similar of the 
hatred oi women, as Hippolytus : of mankind, as 
Timon. 

And that we may come to the similitude of 
bodily infirmity, and use that comparison at last. 
though more sparingly than the ^Stoics : as some 
are more subject than others to certain diseases : 
as we say certain individuals are catarrhous. or 
colicky, not because they are now. but are apt to be 
so : thus, some are subject to fear, others to some 
other perturbation. Hence, to some, anxiety is 
imputed, whence they are called anxious : to 
others, irascibility, which differs from anger : for 
it is one thing to be irascible. — to be angry is 
another : as anxiety diners from anguish. For 
neither are all anxious who are sometimes in 
anguish, nor they who are anxious always in 
anguish : as there is difference between ebriety 
and ebriositv : and it is one thins: to be amorous. 



208 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

— to be enamoured is another. This predisposi- 
tion of minds, some to one, others to other mala- 
dies, has wide range ; for it holds in all the per- 
turbations. It is apparent, also, in many of the 
vices, but has not found a name. Thus, the 
envious, the malevolent, the spiteful, the timid, 
the compassionate, are named from the propensity 
to such perturbations, — not because always per- 
turbed. Then, let this propensity of each to his 
own kind be named, from resemblance to the 
body, sickliness ; provided it be understood as the 
proclivity to sickness. But, in good things, this 
aptitude of some to this, and some to that, may be 
called facility ; in what is evil, proclivity, as sig- 
nificant of proneness to fall ; in neuters, let it have 
the better name. But as, in the body, there is 
disease, sickness, and deformity, so in the mind. 
They call disease, the indisposition of the whole 
body ; sickness is disease with failure of strength ; 
deformity exists, when the parts of the body want 
correspondence among themselves. Hence the dis- 
figuration of limbs, distortion, ugliness. Thus, 
the two, disease and sickness, arise from the de- 
rangement and shattered condition of the whole 
bodily health ; but deformity displays itself con- 
spicuously while the health is sound. But, in the 
mind, we can distinguish in thought only, between 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 209 

disease and sickness ; whereas, vitiosity, the men- 
tal deformity, is a habit, or affection, of incon- 
stancy, throughout life, at perpetual variance with 
itself. Hence the examples where the corruption 
of opinion produces disease and sickness ; others 
where it exhibits itself in self-contradiction and 
inconsistencies. For every misshapen mind is not 
a cripple, nor has distorted members ; as, in those 
who are not far from wisdom, the bias of the 
mind still has a certain self-discrepancy, while it 
is unwise, but is neither deformed nor depraved. 
Diseases and sicknesses are a part of vitiosity : 
whether perturbations are so, or not, is question- 
able ; for vices are permanent affections, — per- 
turbations are transient, and consequently cannot 
be parts of permanent affections. But, as in evils 
the similitude of the body reflects the nature of 
the mind, so in goods. For in the body are the 
advantages of beauty, strength, health, firmness, 
velocity : the mind has them also. For, as the 
body is free of distemper, when those things of 
which we consist are at harmony one with an- 
other, so the health of the mind is deemed sound, 
when its judgments and opinions are at concord : 
and this is virtue : who, by some, is called tem- 
perance herself, — by some, the handmaid of tem- 
perance, obeying her precepts, and attending her 
18 



210 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

always, and having no form of her own ; but, 
whether in this mode or in that, she resides with 
the wise man alone. 

But there is a certain health of the mind inci- 
dent even to the unwise, when, by the treatment 
of philosophy, the turbulence of the mind is re- 
moved. And, as there is a certain just form of the 
members of the body, with a sort of suavity of 
complexion, which is called beauty ; so, in the 
mind, the harmony and constancy of opinions and 
judgments, with a certain firmness and stability, 
either attendant upon virtue, or containing the 
force of virtue herself, is called beauty. And, 
bearing resemblance, in efficiency, to the strength 
and sinews of the body, the energies of the mind 
are named with like words. But the velocity of 
the body has the appellation of celerity : the same 
is reputed the merit of genius, on account of the 
speedy running over in the mind, of so many 
things in so short a time. In one thing, the parity 
ceases, because minds in health cannot be attacked 
by disease ; whereas bodies may. But maladies 
of the body may occur without fault. It is not so 
with minds, all whose diseases and perturbations 
arise from the spurning of reason. And therefore 
they exist only in men ; for beasts act in much 
the like manner, but are not subject to perturba- 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 211 

tions. But, between the discerning and the stu- 
pid, there is this distinction, — that the ingenious, 
as Corinthian brass to rust, are slower to admit 
disease, and are recovered with more ease : with 
the heavy of intellect, it is otherwise. Nor, in- 
deed, does the mind of the ingenious fall into 
every disease, or perturbation ; it is capable of 
none that is savage and barbarous : and there are 
some which have the first show even of humanity ; 
as pity, sorrow, fear. But the sicknesses and dis- 
eases of the mind are thought to be of more diffi- 
cult removal than even those capital vices, which 
are contrary to the virtues. For, until the sick 
mind be convalescent, the fluctuations of its emo- 
tions cannot be healed ; and the mind is more 
tenacious of its weaknesses than even of its vices. 
You have what the Stoics have said, with pro- 
found penetration, on the perturbations: these 
discussions are called logical, because they are 
argued with refinement ; through which, as from 
rock-bound straits, our discourse having cleared 
its passage, let us shape our course for the rest of 
the disputation ; that is, however, if we have 
sketched these ideas with sufficient clearness, 
with allowance for the obscurity of the subject. 

Auditor. Quite sufficient. But, should a more 
thorough knowledge of some point be desirable. 



212 THE TUSGULAN QUESTIONS. 

we will seek it some other time : but now we 
expect the sails, which you mentioned just now ? 
and the course. 

Seeing I have frequently spoken of virtue else- 
where, and shall have to speak often, for most 
questions which have reference to life and man-* 
ners, are to be traced up to the fountain of virtue ; 
since virtue, then, is a consistent and uniform 
affection of the mind, rendering those laudable in 
whom she exists, and is laudable herself, at her 
own impulse, even separate from utility; — from 
her proceed honest designs, sentiments, actions, and 
all right reason ; although virtue herself may be 
called the shortest right reason. The opposite of 
this right affection of the mind, is vitiosity ; for so 
I prefer to name it, rather than malice ; which the 
Greeks call mv^a; for malice is the name of a 
certain particular vice, vitiosity of all ; and is 
parent of the perturbations ; which, as I have said 
before, are turbulent and excited motions of the 
mind, in rebellion to reason, and most inimical to 
the tranquillity of the breast, and of life. For 
they are fraught with anxious and bitter sorrows ; 
they afflict the mind, and cripple it with fear. 
They inflame it with vehement appetite, which is 
termed either cupidity or lust ; a certain loss of 
control of mind, the deadly adversary of temper- 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 213 

ance and moderation ; which, if at any time it 
attains the object of its desire, is so transported 
with delirious delight, that the mind can act 
nothing with consistency ; always conscious of the 
extreme delusion of this intoxicated exhilaration. 
For these evils, then, the only remedy is to be 
found in virtue. But what can be more unhappy, 
not only, but what more disgusting also and de- 
formed, than the man, who is broken down, pros- 
trate, and helpless with sorrow ? To this misery 
the next is his, who is smitten with fear at the 
prospect of evil, and is bewildered in mind with 
the stupefaction of suspense. The poets, to im- 
press the vehemence of this evil, paint Tantalus 
in hell with a rock impending over him • 

" For guilt, dire impotence of mind, and vaunts." 

Such is the ordinary punishment of folly. For all 
whose hearts are at defiance with reason, there is 
always something impending ; for some, grief, for 
others, terrour. And as these perturbations, sor- 
row and fear, are pestiferous, so those of a merrier 
mood, cupidity, ever in eager pursuit of something, 
and empty exultation, that is, excessive joy, are 
not much different from madness. From these 
traits, we see what the man must be, whom we 
sometimes call moderate, at others modest and 
18* 



214 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

temperate, at others consistent, and continent : 
sometimes we refer these same traits to the name 
frugality, as to the fountainhead. For, unless the 
virtues were included in this name, it would never 
have gained such currency, as already to have 
become a proverb, — that the frugal man does every 
thing rightly. Which when the Stoics assert of 
their wise man, they are thought to deal in the 
wonderful, and to indulge their style in too much 
magnificence. Therefore the man, whoever he is, 
who has quiet of mind, through moderation and 
constancy, and thus at peace with himself, is 
neither corroded with cares, nor crippled by fear ; 
and, thirsting for nothing impatiently, is exempt 
from the fires of desire, and, dizzied by the fumes 
of no futile felicity, reels with no riotous joy : this 
is the wise man we seek : this man is happy ; for 
whom nothing in human events can appear intol- 
erable, to the depression of his mind, nothing so 
joyously exhilarating, as to elate it beyond meas- 
ure. For what should appear great in human 
affairs to him, for whom all eternity is embraced 
in thought, and the magnitude of the whole uni- 
verse is known ? For what, either in human 
interests, or in so contracted a brevity of life, can 
seem great to the wise man, whose mind is always 
so vigilant, that nothing can happen to him unex- 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 215 

pected, nothing unforeseen, nothing at all new ? 
This sage, moreover, casts around him so searching 
a glance, that he always sees somewhere a seat for 
himself, and a place where he may dwell, free of 
trouble and anxiety ; so that whatever hap may be 
dealt him by fortune, he will bear it prudently and 
quietly. Whoever shall do this, will not only be 
void of sorrow, but of all other perturbations. But 
the mind void of these, makes the happy man, the 
perfectly, absolutely, blest : whereas the same, ex- 
cited, and divorced from sound and stable reason, 
not only has departed from constancy, but even 
from sanit}^ 

For which cause the system and style of the 
Peripatetics is to be deemed languid and soft ; 
who maintain that minds are perturbed of neces- 
sity: but they apply a certain moderation, to 
exceed which is trespass. Wilt thou apply a 
measure to vice ? or is it no vice, not to obey 
reason ? or has reason omitted to inculcate ; that 
neither is that a good, which thou art either on 
fire to possess, or, possessing, art delirious with joy : 
nor that an evil, which either thou hast permitted 
to crush thee ; or lest it should crush, art almost 
beside thyself? and that all these objects are 
rendered by error, either too joyous, or too sad ? 
Which error, if even with fools it be extenuated 



216 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

by time, so that while the thing is the same, they 
bear the inveterate, otherwise than the recent ; 
let it not attach to the wise man at all ; for, in 
effect, what should that moderation be ? For 
suppose we inquire for the moderation of sorrow, 
as the most worth the labour. It is asserted by 
Fannius, that Publius Rutilius was profoundly hurt 
at the repulse of his brother from the Consulship. 
But yet it appears he transcended moderation, 
since he allowed it to prevail with him, to with- 
draw from existence : he ought therefore to have 
taken it more moderately. But had he borne that 
moderately, what if the death of children had 
supervened? a new sorrow would have sprung, 
but that also moderate ; but yet the accession 
would have been great. What if there had been 
added the severest pains of the body, the loss of 
estate, blindness, banishment, each calamity con- 
tributing its sorrow ? the mass must have been 
such as he could not have sustained. 

Then whoever attempts to set bounds for vice, 
does the same as he would do who should leap 
from the Leucadian cliff, thinking he could sus- 
pend his fall at pleasure. For as that is impossi- 
ble, so the agitated and excited mind can neither 
constrain itself, nor check its fall when it will, by 
any means at all ; and whatsoever things are 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 217 

pernicious at maturity, the same are vicious at 
birth. But sorrow and the perturbations, when 
full-grown, are certainly pestiferous ; then also, 
when first cherished, they infect with a great part 
of their plague. For, when once the helm is 
wrested from reason, they impel one another ; and 
weakness is indulgent to weakness, and is hurried 
blindly to the precipice, without the power to 
pause at what point soever. Wherefore, there is 
nothing to choose, whether you approve moderate 
perturbations, or moderate injustice, moderate cow- 
ardice, moderate intemperance. For whoever 
appoints a measure for the vices, has himself es- 
poused a part of the vices ; which, besides being 
odious itself, is more unfortunate, because they 
are on slippery ground; and, once incited, they 
slide rapidly downwards, and nothing can save 
them at all. 

What ! is it possible that those very Peripatetics 
should say of these perturbations, which we think 
are to be extirpated, that they are not only natu- 
ral, but usefully implanted by nature ? For such 
is the language they hold. In the first place, they 
eulogize anger with profusion of words ; they call 
it the whetstone of courage, and say the impetus 
of the angry is far more vehement, as well against 
the enemy, as for quelling an insurgent citizen ; 



218 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

but the motives are paltry of those who think 
after this manner : "It is right this battle should 
be fought : it is duty to contend for our laws, our 
liberty, our country." These are without force, 
unless Fortitude is kindled with anger. Nor, indeed, 
do they discourse about warriours alone. They 
think no gubernatorial sway can be firmly assert- 
ed without some acerbity of anger. Finally, they 
do not approve the orator unfurnished with angry 
stings ; and this not only when acting as accuser, 
but even when he pleads in defence. But, even 
if deficient in so essential a weapon, he is to sub- 
stitute the show of it, at least, both in his words 
and his gesture, that the action of the orator may 
kindle the anger of the hearer. In a word, he 
that is ignorant how to be angry, they refuse to 
acknowledge for man ; and what we call lenity, 
they depreciate by the vicious appellation of lenti- 
tude. Nor, indeed, do they panegyrize this lust 
alone ; for anger, as I have already defined, is the 
lust of revenge : but even the real genus itself, 
whether of lust or cupidity, they say is a gift of 
nature of excellent use ; for no man can perform 
any thing brilliant, except what he covets to do. 
Themistocles walked the streets by night, because 
he could find no sleep : he answered inquirers, — 
the trophies of Miltiades kept him awake. Who 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 219 

has not heard of the Vigils of Demosthenes ? It 
grieved him, he said, if the artisan, at any time, 
was at work in the morning more early than him- 
self. Those princes of philosophy themselves 
could never have made such progress in their 
studies, but for the flames of cupidity. Pythago- 
ras had visited the extremities of earth ; Democri- 
tus, Plato, had travelled as far ; for, wherever was 
any thing that could be learned, there they deem- 
ed it was for them to repair. Is it probable such 
things could have happened without the stimulus 
of the most ardent cupidity ? Even sorrow itself, 
which we have said is to be avoided as a foul and 
ferocious monster, they say has been constituted 
by nature, and not without important utility ; that 
men might grieve at chastisement, reprehension, 
disgrace, inflicted for delinquency. It would seem 
that those might trespass with impunity, who 
should suffer reproach and infamy without regret. 
The reproaches of conscience are better. Hence 
this trait of Afranius, copied from life. For when 
the dissolute son exclaims, — 

" Alas ! how miserable I am ! " 
the severe father, — 

" So he grieve at something, let him grieve at will." 



220 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

The residuary parts of sorrow they declare to be 
useful ; pity, for inducing relief, and repairing the 
calamities of men under unmerited misfortune : 
nor even emulation and detraction without their 
uses; as, when a man sees he has not acquired 
what another has, or that another has gained the 
same as himself: but, as to fear, were it to be 
removed, the whole industry of life would disap*- 
pear ; which mainly depends on those who stand 
in fear of the laws, the magistrates, poverty, 
disgrace, pain, and death. They confess, however 3 
these perturbations ought to be pruned down ; but 
to uproot them altogether, they say, is neither 
possible nor desirable : that in this, as in almost 
every thing, mediocrity is best. When they have 
defended their cause in this manner, does it appear 
to you that they have said something, or nothing ? 

Auditor. It appears to me something, I confess ; 
and I am therefore impatient to hear you dilute it. 

Marcus. I shall find the means, perhaps. But 
one thing first. Have you never observed the 
modest reserve which attaches to the Academics ? 
for they say, in plain words, what bears upon the 
point. Let the Peripatetics be refuted by the 
Stoics. Let them fight it out, for all me : for 
whom nothing is of necessity but to search dili- 
gently for that which has the nearest resemblance 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 221 

of truth. Then what is there, which offers itself 
in this question, that can aid us in attaining some- 
thing probable, than which the human mind can 
proceed no further ? It is the definition of a per- 
turbation, which I think is rightly drawn by 
Zeno ; for he defines it thus : A perturbation is a 
commotion of the mind in defiance of reason, and 
contrary to nature ; or, shorter, perturbation is a 
more vehement appetite : understanding more ve- 
hement, the further departure from the constancy 
of nature. 

What can I object to these definitions ? and, in 
general, they are all worthy of prudent and pro- 
found reasoners. 

But those flames of the mind, and whetstone of 
the virtues, are proper to the pomp of rhetoricians. 
Is it true, that a man of courage cannot be brave, 
unless his indignation begins to be stirred ? That 
were worthy of gladiators, indeed : although we 
often see constancy even in them. They con- 
verse together, walk together ; they complain, 
make some request, that it should seem they are 
rather placid than angry. But, be it admitted, 
that, among that class, some Pacideianus is of the 
mind Lucilius represents : 

I'll kill him, doubt me not; I'll conquer, trust me: 
Only, there is a chance my throat receives 
19 



222 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

His thrust, before my sword-hilt greets the breast 
Of Fulvius, through the lungs and stomach run. 
I do hate the man: I fight in dudgeon. 
And gasp to have my hand and sword acquaint; 
Such anger burns, from hate to him conceived. 

But in Homer, without this gladiatorial anger, we 
see Ajax advancing with much hilarity, when he 
was about to combat with Hector. As soon as he 
took up arms, his entrance brought joy to his 
associates, but struck the enemy with terrour ; so 
that Hector himself, as Homer represents it, trem- 
bling throughout his frame, repented that he had 
challenged the fight. But, before they joined 
battle, these heroes talked together mildly and 
calmly, and, even during the fight, did nothing in 
an angry and furious manner. 

I do not think even that Torquatus, who con- 
quered for himself this name, was angry, when he 
stripped the Gaul of his collar ; nor Marcellus to 
have been brave at Clastidium, because he was 
angry. As for Africanus, since he is more known 
to us, from being of more recent memory, I could 
even swear, that he was not inflamed with anger, 
when he protected Marcus Halienus of Peligni 
with his shield, while he planted his sword in the 
breast of the enemy. Perhaps I should doubt of 
Lucius Brutus, whether, on account of the infinite 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 



223 



hatred of the tyrant, he had not rushed upon 
Aruns in a headlong manner ; for I see they both 
fell together, transpierced with mutual wounds. 
Why, then, do you bring anger here ? has forti- 
tude no impetus of her own, unless she begins to 
grow insane ? What ! Hercules, whose fortitude, 
which you take to be anger, raised him to heaven, 
— do you think him to have conflicted, in anger, 
with the Erymanthian boar, or the Nemsean lion ? 
or that Theseus also was angry, when he took the 
Marathonian bull by the horns ? Look out, lest it 
prove that fortitude is the very last to be in a rage, 
and that the whole of anger is matter of levity ; 
for there is no courage without reason. Human 
things are to be slighted; death is to be ne- 
glected ; pains and toils to be thought endurable. 
These ideas once established in the judgment, 
and grounded in the sentiment, then exists that 
robust, unshaken fortitude ; unless, perchance, you 
suspect that all which is executed with vehe- 
mence, decision, and spirit, is done angrily. In- 
deed, not even that Scipio, chief pontiff, who 
declared this maxim of the Stoics to be true, — 
that "the wise man is never a private man," 
appears to me to have been angry with Tiberius 
Gracchus, when he left the down-hearted consul, 
and himself, a private citizen, acted as consul, 



224 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

commanding every friend to his country's safety 
to follow him. 

I do not assert that we ourselves have transact- 
ed any thing with fortitude in behalf of the repub- 
lic : if we have so done, I do assert, that we did it 
not in anger. Is there any thing more similar to 
madness than anger ? which Ennius has well said 
is the commencement of insanity. The colour, 
the voice, the eyes, the breath, the extravagance 
of words and deeds, — what particle of sanity do 
they exhibit? What more disgusting than the 
Homeric Achilles ? what, than Agamemnon in a 
brawl? for Ajax, indeed, is transported by anger 
to phrensy and death. Thus, courage declines 
the patronage of anger; she is sufficiently pro- 
vided, armed, and ready of herself. For, by the 
same rule, it might be said that drunkenness is 
useful to fortitude, and even madness useful ; for 
both the mad and the drunken often do many 
things with intense vehemence. Ajax is always 
brave, but in phrensy, the bravest of the brave. 

For, when the Grecian host began to break, 
His hand achieved a deed of special wonder. 
With thundering arm, he gave the foe repulse, 
And saved the battle in a fit of madness. 

Then let us call insanity useful. Handle the 
definition of fortitude ; you will see she has no 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 



225 



need of indignation. Fortitude, then, is an affec- 
tion of the mind, obedient to the sovereign law, in 
the patient endurance of things ; or, the preserva- 
tion of stable judgment, in the endurance and 
repulsion of those things which appear formidable ; 
or, the science of bearing, or altogether despising, 
formidable and adverse things, with presence of 
judgment to weigh them: or, shorter, as Chry sip- 
pus : for the preceding are of Sphserus, as the 
Stoics think, an excellent master of definitions : 
for they are all very much alike, but express com- 
mon conceptions, some a little more than others. 
But how was that of Chrysippus ? Fortitude, he 
says, is the science of bearing things well ; or an 
affection of the mind, in patience and persever- 
ance, observant of the sovereign law, without fear. 
Let us jeer them as much as we will, as Carnea- 
des used to do ; I fear they are the only philoso- 
phers. For, which of these definitions fails to 
display our impression, the notion we all have of 
fortitude covered and involved in our breasts ? 
which being developed, who is there would seek 
other resource for the warriour, or governor, or ora- 
tor ? or would deem them incapable of doing any 
thing with courage, without phrensy ? What ? 
the Stoics, who say that all the unwise are 
insane, — do they not urge these arguments? — 
19* 



226 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

remove the perturbations, and especially anger, 
and at once they will appear to talk wild them- 
selves. But, as things are, they plead thus : they 
say that all fools are insane, the same as all filth 
has a vile odour. But not always : stir it ; you 
will perceive. Thus, the irascible man is not 
always angry. Provoke, and at once you will see 
him storming. What ! this warlike anger, when 
she returns to the house, — how is she with the 
wife ? with the children ? with the servants ? is 
she useful here also ? then there is something 
which a convulsed mind can do better than the 
constant : or, can any one be angry without con- 
vulsion of mind? Our countrymen, then, have 
done well, when all the vices are the fault of mor- 
als, because there is none more detestable than 
anger, have named the irascible, by way of dis- 
tinction, morose. But it least of all becomes the 
orator to be angry : to affect anger, does not mis- 
become. Do we appear to thee to be angry, 
when, in causes, we say any thing a little sharp 
or vehement ? What ! after the trial is over, and 
the affair settled, when we write our orations, do 
we write them in anger? " Et quis hoc anirnad- 
vertit? Vincite" You know the passage. Are 
we to think that either JEsopits ever acted, or 
Accius ever composed his scenes, in anger ? Such 



THE PERTURBATIONS* 227 

matters are acted to the life, but they are acted 
without anger ; and by the orator, indeed, better, 
if he is an orator, than by any tragedian ; but they 
are acted without anger, and with a tranquil mind. 
But, to praise lust, what lust does it proceed from ? 
You adduce me Themistocles and Demosthenes ; 
you add Pythagoras, Democritus, Plato. What ! 
do you call studies lust ? which seek the very 
best of things, as those are you cite, and therefore 
must be sedate and tranquil. And now, to praise 
sorrow, the one most detestable of all things, of 
what philosophers, indeed, is it worthy? But 
Afranius has properly said, — 

So he grieve at something, let him grieve at will; 

for he said it of a profligate and dissolute youth : 
but our inquiry has reference to the constant and 
wise man. And, indeed, be that anger appropriate 
to the centurion, to the standard-bearer, and the 
rest, whom it is not necessary to mention, lest we 
reveal the mysteries of the rhetoricians. For ani- 
mal impulse is usefully exerted, where the mind 
cannot use that of reason : but we, as I often pro- 
test, are in search of the sage. But even to emu- 
late is useful ; to detract, to pity ! Why should 
you pity rather than relieve, if able to do it ? can 
we not be bountiful without pity ? For we ought 



228 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

not, on account of others, to indulge sorrows our- 
selves, but, if we can, to remove the sorrows of 
others. But, to detract from others, or to emulate 
in the sense of rivalship, what can be the utility ; 
when it is proper to the emulator to be grieved at 
the good of another, because he has not obtained 
it himself: and the detractor grieves at the good 
of another, because that other has it also ? How 
can it be justified for you to grieve at seeing the 
fruition of a good you would wish to enjoy your- 
self? for the wish to enjoy exclusive good, is the 
height of madness. But who can rightly praise 
mediocrities of evils ? for how is it possible for the 
man who indulges lust or cupidity not to be libidi- 
nous and covetous ? or the man who admits anger, 
not irascible ? or anxiety, not anxious ? or fear, not 
timid ? Are we, then, to judge the wise man to 
be moderately libidinous, covetous, irascible, anx- 
ious, and cowardly ? of whose excellence it were 
easy to enlarge with copious prolixity ; but with 
the most brevity, thus : Wisdom is the knowledge 
of things divine and human, and the knowledge 
of the causes of every thing; from which it is 
effected, that she imitates the divine, and deems 
all human things inferior to virtue. Into this 
wisdom, as into an ocean subject to the winds, 
you have said, it appeared to you, that perturba- 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 229 

tions might fall. What is there that should per- 
turb such gravity and constancy ? something un- 
foreseen and sudden ? What can be so, to him, to 
whom nothing is unforeseen that can happen to 
man ? For ; as to what they say, that excesses 
are to be pruned away, but what is natural left ; 
what can there be natural, that is capable of ex- 
cess ? For all these are the offspring of the roots 
of errors, which are to be extracted and eradicated, 

— not to be pruned or amputated. 

But, since I suspect your inquiry to have had 
for object, not so much the wise man, as yourself, 

— for you suppose him free of all perturbation, 
and would wish to be yourself, — let us see what 
remedies may be found in philosophy for the mal- 
adies of the mind. For some medicine there cer- 
tainly is : nor has nature been so cruel and inimi- 
cal to the human race, as to provide for the body 
so many salutary resources, — none for the mind. 
In one respect, she has done even more for the 
mind, in that the succours for the body are to be 
sought from without ; whereas the health of the 
mind is included in itself. But, the greater its 
excellence, and the more divine, the greater is the 
diligence it demands. And thus, if reason be 
rightly consulted, the best is always discerned ; 
if neglected, we get entangled in many errors, 



230 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Therefore my whole discourse is now to be ad- 
dressed to thee ; for, though in appearance thy 
query related to the sage, it had special reference, 
perhaps, to thyself. 

Then, of those perturbations I have sketched, 
the curative treatment is various. For neither is 
every sorrow appeased by one method ; for there is 
one for the mourner, another for the grief of sym- 
pathy, another for that of envy. There is a dis- 
tinction, also, which applies to all the four per- 
turbations. Whether to treat of perturbation in 
general, which is the spurning of reason, or exces- 
sive vehemence of appetite ; or in particular, as of 
fear, lust, and the rest ; and whether to show that 
the immediate source of sorrow is not to be la- 
mented ; or that all sorrow, on every account, is 
altogether inadmissible : as, if any one should take 
to heart that he is poor, whether you should argue 
that poverty is not an evil ; or that man ought not 
to bear any thing impatiently. No doubt, this is 
better ; lest, if you fail to convince as to poverty, 
it should appear right to indulge sorrow : but sor- 
row removed by the proper reasons, we used yes- 
terday, the evil also of poverty is, in a certain 
manner, removed. But every such perturbation is 
effectually wiped away by this abstergent, when 
you teach that the thing is not good which excites 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 231 

the fever of desire or joy ; and that not an evil, 
which causes the sorrow or fear. Still, however, 
this is the certain and proper treatment : to show 
the perturbations are vicious of themselves, and 
neither natural nor necessary : as sorrow itself is 
moderated, we see, when we hold up to the 
mourner the imbecility of an effeminate mind, 
and praise the constancy and gravity of those who 
calmly resign themselves to human events. In- 
deed, this usually happens even with those who 
account them evils; they still think them to be 
borne with firmness. One thinks pleasure a good ; 
another, money : yet that man may be deterred 
from intemperance, and this from avarice. 

But the method and discourse which sweeps at 
once both the false opinion and the sorrow, is 
certainly the more profound ; but it rarely suc- 
ceeds, and is not to be employed with the vulgar. 
Some sorrows there are, however, which that 
medicine will by no means touch ; as, should any 
one mourn that he is void of virtue, — that he has 
nothing like courage, nor duty, nor honesty, in 
him : these are evils indeed, which afflict him : 
but a certain other curative process is to be used 
for him ; and such as might have the concurrence, 
indeed, of all philosophers, however dissenting on 
other points. For it must be conceded by all, 



232 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

that commotions of mind, at hostility with reason, 
are vicious ; so that, even if the object of the sorrow 
or fear be evil, and that of the feverish joy or desire 
be good, still the commotion itself is vicious. For 
the man we should call brave and magnanimous, 
must be some one who is constant, sedate, grave, 
and the contemner of all human accidents. Such 
can no man be, whether grieving, or fearing, or 
desiring, or leaping for joy ; for these are traits of 
men who hold human events superior to their own 
souls. Wherefore, as I have said, there is one 
method of cure common to all philosophers : that, 
omitting the question as to the nature of the thing 
which disturbs the mind, whether a good, or not, 
the discourse is to turn upon perturbation itself. 
As, first in cupidity, for instance, when to remove 
it, is the sole object, the point is not to be touched, 
whether the thing coveted is good or not good, 
but the passion itself is to be combated : that, 
whether honesty be the chief good, or pleasure, 
or both united, or that system of three goods, still, 
though virtue herself were the object of languish- 
ment, from too eager intensity of desire, the same 
discourse of dissuasion must be held by all philos- 
ophers. Bat the whole pacification of the mind is 
contained in the exhibiting of nature before the 
human view ; and, in order that she may be seen 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 233 

more distinctly, the common condition and the 
law of life is to be held up to the light in dis- 
course. And thus it was not without cause, that, 
when Euripides held the first rehearsal of his 
Orestes, Socrates is said to have recalled the three 
first verses : 

No scourge so terrible can language name, 
No plague, no curse, by angry Heaven devised, 
That human nature is not doomed to bear. 

But the precept, that the events which have hap- 
pened both can and ought to be borne, is usefully 
enforced, by the enumeration of those who have 
borne the same : although the relief of sorrow is 
explained as well in the disputation of yesterday 
as in the book of Consolation, which we wrote in 
the midst of sorrow and mourning ; for we were 
not wise : and what Chrysippus forbids, to admin- 
ister medicine to the recent intumescence, as it 
were, of the mind, that we did ; and offered vio- 
lence to nature, that the magnitude of the grief 
might yield to the magnitude of the remedy. 

But the next neighbour to sorrow, of which 
enough has been said, is fear; which is to be 
touched briefly. For, as sorrow of present, so fear 
is the sense of future evils ; and therefore some 
have considered fear as a certain branch of sorrow 
20 



234 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Others have called fear trouble aforehand, as being 
the leader of approaching troubles. Then, for the 
same reasons the present are borne, their followers 
are to be despised. For in both we are to guard 
ourselves from doing aught that is mean, cringing, 
soft, effeminate, crippled, abject. But, while it is 
proper to enlarge upon the inconstancy, the imbe- 
cility, the levity of fear itself, yet it is highly 
beneficial to extenuate and render contemptible 
the objects themselves which are apprehended. 
And thus, whether the effect of chance or design, 
it is a commodious fact, that the objects of especial 
dread — death and pain — were considered on the 
first and second day ; which disputations, if satis- 
factory, have freed us, in great measure, from fear. 
And so much for the opinion of evils. 

Let us now turn our attention to that of goods ; 
that is, to the objects of joy and desire. In all 
that relates to the perturbations, indeed, there 
appears to me one point which contains the 
cause : they are all in our power, all embraced 
from judgment, all voluntary. This error, then, 
is to be extracted, —this opinion must be removed. 
And as, in reputed evils, they are to be rendered 
tolerable, so, in reputed goods, such as are thought 
great and joyous are to be reduced to the standard 
of sobriety. This, however, is common both to 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 235 

goods and to evils, — that, should it be difficult, as 
yet, to convince the patient that nothing which 
disturbs the mind is to be ranked either with 
goods or with evils, yet various are the modes of 
cure for various commotions : that the malevolent 
is to be reformed by one method, — the lover by 
another ; another still for the anxious, and another 
for the timid. And, according to the most ap- 
proved system of goods and evils, it were easy to 
deny that the unwise can ever at all be affected 
with joy, because he never can have any thing 
good. But we shall speak now in the common 
manner. Let things which are reputed goods 
fairly pass for such ; — honours, riches, pleasures, 
and the rest : yet, in the fruition even of these, 
exultation, and gesticulations of joy are shameful ; 
as, when to smile is admissible, yet the shout of 
laughter is reprehensible. For the effusion of 
mind in joy, is trait of the same vice as its contrac- 
tion in sorrow : and cupidity of pursuit belongs to 
the same levity as exultation in fruition ; and both 
the over-afflicted in trouble, and the over-elated in 
joy, are rightly reputed light-minded. 

And, since to envy is a part of sorrow, and to 
take pleasure in the misfortunes of another, of joy, 
both are usually chastised by representing the 
inhumanity and ferocity, as it were, of such emo- 



236 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

tions. And, as to be self-assured is becoming^ 
while to fear is unbecoming, so to be glad is 
seemly ; to exult is indecent ; since, for the sake 
of inculcating a precept, we distinguish gladness 
from joy. That contraction of mind above men-- 
tioned can never rightly happen at all ; whereas, a 
certain elation of mind may ; for there is difference 
between this gladness of the Nasvian Hector, J — 

My heart o'erflows with gladness, O my father, 
That I am praised hy thee, a man of praise : — 

and this which is found in Trabea : 

Leena delinita argento, nutum observabit meum, 

Q,uid velim, quid studeam ; adveniens digito impellam 

januam: 
Fores patebunt : de improviso Chrysis ubi me adspexerit, 
Alacris obviam mihi veniet, complexum exoptans meum. 
Mihi se dedet. 

How beautiful he thinks these things, he will 
even tell us himself : 

Fortune herself will envy me my fortunes. 

How shameful such exultation, the attentive ob- 
server will see plain enough. And, as the brand 
of baseness attaches to those who glory in the 
shame of forbidden pleasures ; so they are flagi- 
tious, who covet them with unbridled appetite. 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 237 

And, indeed, the whole of what vulgarly passes 
under the name of love — and, by Hercules, I find 
no other name by which it can be called — is of a 
levity which sets all comparison at defiance. 
Whom Caecilius, — ■ 

The man who deems him not the God supreme, 
Let pass for fool; at least, to all things new. 
Alone it rests with him, whom he will madden, 
Whom make wise, insane, or victim of disease, 
Or whom, in turn, beloved, caressed, and courted. 

O surpassing emendatress of life, thou poetry ! 
who wilt have Love, the author of profligacy and 
levity, placed in the council of the gods. I speak 
of comedy, which, unless we approved these scan- 
dals, would have been banished from the world. 
As for tragedy, what says that prince of the Argo-? 
nauts ?- 

Not honour, 't was love that prompted thee to save me. 

Then what ? this love of Medea, what a conflagra- 
tion of miseries it kindled ! And yet, according 
to another poet, she has the audacity to say to her 
father, that she had accepted for husband, 

The man, whom Love bestowed ; a greater far, 
And more to be revered, than is a father. 

But let us suffer the poets to sport, in whose plays 3 
20* 



238 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

we find even Jove himself bearing his part in 
these scandals. 

Let us come to the masters of virtue, philoso- 
phers, who deny the affinity of love with concu- 
piscence, and are at strife upon this point with 
Epicurus, not much in the wrong, according to 
me. For who is that Love of juvenile friendship, 
who never attaches himself either to youth de- 
formed, or beautiful age ? He appears to me to 
have sprung from the Grecian Gymnasium, where 
such friendships have scope and countenance. 
Hence Ennius might well say, — 

When citizens their bodies strip, blushes farewell! 

Who, were they to continue modest, which I admit 
is possible, yet they will be shocked at least, and 
anxious ; and so much the more, the more they 
are reserved, and respect themselves. And, omit- 
ting the love of woman, for which nature has 
more indulgence, who can feign ignorance, of 
what the poets design by the rape of Ganymede ; 
or is at a loss to condemn, what Laius in Euripides 
both covets and utters ? Indeed, what have not 
the most learned and ingenious poets published, 
even of themselves, in poem and song ? What a 
corrupt picture of juvenile passion, in the writings 
of Alcseus ? a man of courage and consequence in 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 239 

his country. For as to Anacreon, his every verse 
indeed is amatory. But the writings of Ibycus of 
Rhegium, outshone all the rest, for the infamy of 
erotick passion. Thus we see the stigma of con- 
cupiscence attaches to the loves of all these. 

Even among us philosophers some are found ,who 
ascribe authority to Love : and indeed our chief, 
Plato himself, whom Dicosarehus accuses not un- 
justly. But the Stoics say, the wise man himself 
will not be insusceptible of love : and they define 
love as the endeavour to gain friendship by the 
exhibition of beauty. Which, if it can exist in the 
nature of things, without solicitude, without long- 
ing, without care, without sigh ! So be it, indeed ; 
for it is void of all lust. But of this I have hith- 
erto spoken. Meanwhile, if there is a love, as 
there certainly is, which differs little or nothing 
from insanity ; as that in the Leucadian : 

If any god there be, who cares for me. 

A suitable case no doubt for all the gods, how he 
might prosper in courtship ! 

O how miserable I am ! 

Never truer word spoken. And very proper this : 

Art in thy senses, thus rashly to lament ? 



240 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Even to his own friends he appears insane. But 
what strains of tragedy ! 

O, holy Phoebus, on thee for aid I call ; 

Thee I invoke, Neptune omnipotent; 

And O ye winds, propitious waft my prayers. 

He expects the whole universe will turn to the 
tune of his amorous serenade. He excludes only 
Venus from the party, as truant to duty : 

For wherefore, Venus, should I thee invoke? 

He asserts that, occupied with lust of her own 5 
she has no care of him ; as if it were not his own 
lust which impels him to the saying and doing of 
all these extravagances. The patient thus afflicts 
ed is to be treated in this method : he is to be 
made to see how light, how contemptible, how 
absolutely nothing at all, is the object he covets ; 
how easy either to be found elsewhere, or in an- 
other mode, or to be neglected altogether. Some- 
times, also, he is to be drawn to other studies, 
interests, cares, affairs. Finally, he is often to be 
cured, like the sick who despair of convalescence, 
by removal to another place. There are also who 
recommend the expulsion, as of one nail by an-* 
other, of the old love by a new one. But espe- 
cially let him be admonished how great is the 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 241 

phrensy of love. For, of all perturbations of the 
mind, there is really none more vehement ; for, 
although you omit the charges of rapes, seduc- 
tions, adulteries, and even incests, — to all which 
turpitudes it has impelled, — but though you pass 
them in silence, the perturbation of mind itself in 
this passion, is of its own nature disgusting. For, 
to say nothing of the excesses of phrensy, those 
which appear common, what levity they display 
in their own traits ! 

Wrongs, suspicions, enmities and truces, 

War. Peace renewed. With reason wavering thus, 

Shouldst thou attempt aught certain to perform, 

Thou hast a task as hopeful much I deem, 

As if to madden, thou shouldst try, with reason. 

Who would not be deterred from such inconstancy 
and mutability of mind, even by its own depravi- 
ty ? for it is to be demonstrated, a thing which is 
common to every perturbation, that there is none 
but what results from opinion, but is embraced by 
act of the judgment, but is voluntary. For, were 
love natural, it would follow, necessarily, that all 
would love, would love always, and would love 
the same : nor would modesty deter one, reflection 
another, satiety a third. 

Anger, however, when it has long perturbed the 
mind, leaves not a doubt of insanity : at whose 



242 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

impulse are exchanged, even between brothers., 
such greetings as these : 

The world would fail thy impudence to match. 
What mortal malice ever equalled thine? 

You know the dialogue that follows. For the 
bitterest reproaches are hurled reciprocally be- 
tween the brothers, in alternate verses, that it is 
easy to see they are the sons of that Atreus, who 
meditates a new punishment for a brother. 

Some special mass of mischief I must brew, 
That shall his bitter heart o'erwhelm and crush. 

In what this mass of mischief has broken out, 
Thyestes will tell us himself: 

My impious brother urges me to chew — 
O miserable thought! — my own son's flesh. 

He has caused it to be served up at his table ; for 
what are the lengths to which anger, to which 
fury, will not advance ? Thus, we properly say, 
the angry are gone out of power ; that is, out of 
counsel, out of reason, out of mind ; for the power 
of these ought to control the whole soul. Prom 
such, either let those be withdrawn against whom 
they attempt violence, until they collect them- 
selves; but what is to collect one's self, but to 
gather into place the dissipated parts of the mind ? 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 



243 



■ — or let them be implored and entreated, if they 
have some means of revenge, that they will defer 
it to another time, until anger shall have defer- 
vesced. But to defervesce, certainly implies that 
heated ebullition of mind which has risen in revolt 
against reason. Hence this trait of Archytas is 
praised, who, being somewhat incensed with his 
steward, "What a reception," said he, "you would 
have had, if I had not been angry ! " Then 
where are they who say that anger is useful ? 
Can insanity be useful ? or natural ? can aught be 
consonant to nature, that is repugnant to reason ? 
How happens it, then, if anger is natural, either 
that one man is more irascible than another ; or the 
desire of revenge should pass, before it obtain its 
object ; or any should repent of what he has done 
in anger ? as we see king Alexander, who, when 
he had slain his friend Clitus, scarce kept his 
hand from himself; so great was the force of re- 
pentance. Which things considered, who will 
doubt that this motion of the mind also is alto- 
gether from opinion, and voluntary? For who 
doubts that sicknesses of the mind — such as ava- 
rice, the passion of glory — result from the over- 
estimation of the thing which causes the sickness ? 
Whence it should be evident, that all perturbation 
is founded, in like manner, in opinion. And, if 



244 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

fidentia — that is, a firm assurance of mind — be a 
certain knowledge and grave judgment of the 
mind, not rashly assenting ; diffidence is the appre- 
hension also of expected and impending evil. 
And, if hope is the expectation of good, it is, of 
course, that fear is the expectation of evil. Then, 
as constancy is the offspring of science, so pertur- 
bation is of error. But they who are said to be 
naturally irascible, or pitiful, or envious, or the 
like, they are to be deemed to have an unhealthy 
and rickety constitution of mind ; yet curable. 
As we are told of Socrates : for when in a large 
company, Zopyrus, who professed to interpret the 
man by his features, had collected for that philos- 
opher a multitude of vices, and was universally 
derided by those who knew of no such vices in Soc* 
rates, he was helped into countenance by Socrates 
himself; who said that such were indeed implanted 
in him, but eradicated by reason. Therefore, as ev- 
ery one may appear to enjoy the most perfect health, 
however predisposed by nature to some disease, so 
some minds are more prone than others to particu- 
lar vices. But they who are thought to be vicious 
by their own fault, not by nature, their vices pro- 
ceed from false opinions of what is good, and what 
is evil ; and thus one will more incline to one 
perturbation, another to another ; but inveteracy, 



THE PERTURBATIONS. 245 

as in bodies, is of more difficult removal than 
perturbation : as a sudden inflammation of the 
eyes is sooner cured than a chronic ulceration. 

But, having traced the causes of the perturba- 
tions, which all take origin from the judgments of 
opinion, and from will, let this disputation draw 
to its close. But we ought to know, having as- 
certained the confines of good, and of evil, so far 
as they are knowable to man, that nothing greater, 
or more useful, can even be wished from philoso- 
phy, than what has been illustrated by us, in a 
disputation of four days. For, having brought 
death into contempt, and raised pain up to pa- 
tience, we have adjoined the alleviation of sorrow, 
than which no greater evil is incident to man. 
For, although every perturbation of mind is severe, 
and varies not much from madness, yet they are 
such, that, when others are in some perturbation, 
whether of fear, or joy, or cupidity, we commonly 
say they are agitated only, or perturbed ; but such 
as have surrendered to sorrow, miserable, afflicted, 
overwhelmed with trouble and calamity. And 
thus it appears not to have happened fortuitously, 
but proposed with reason by thee, that we should 
dispute separately of sorrow, and the remaining 
perturbations. For in sorrow is the source and 
fountain of miseries. But the curative treatment 
21 



246 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

of this, and the rest of the perturbations of the 
mind is the same ; they are to be shown as the re- 
sult of opinion, and voluntary, and indulged for no 
other reason than because it appears to be right. 
This error, the root, as it were, of all evils, phi- 
losophy promises to eradicate effectually. Let us, 
then, commit ourselves to her to be treated, and 
let us suffer ourselves to be healed. For, stricken 
with these evils, it is impossible for us not only to 
be happy, but even to be sane. Then let us either 
deny that reason can accomplish any thing, when 
there is nothing that can be rightly accomplished 
without reason ; or, since philosophy consists of a 
collation of reasons, if we wish to be good and 
happy, let us seek from her all those succours and 
aids which enable to live well and happily. 



BOOK V. 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 

This fifth day, my dear Brutus, will bring to a 
close the Tusculan disputations ; on which day, 
we disputed upon that thing, which, of all others, 
you most especially approve. For I perceived 
that you delight in this opinion, — that virtue is 
sufficient of herself to render life happy ; as well 
from that book you wrote me with so much care, 
as from your frequent discourses. Which, al- 
though it is difficult to be proved, on account of 
so various and so numerous shocks of fortune, yet 
it is such as to warrant the most elaborate endeav- 
our to facilitate its proof. For, of all the topics 
which are treated in philosophy, there is nothing 
that could ennoble the style with more gravity 
and magnificence. For, since this is what im- 
pelled those, who first resorted to the study of 
philosophy, to neglect all other things, that they 



248 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

might apply themselves wholly to searching out 
the best condition of life, assuredly it was with 
the hope of living happy, that they expended so 
much care and labour in this study. Because, if 
virtue has been discovered and perfected by them, 
and there is found in virtue an adequate provision 
for happiness, who will not pronounce the labour 
of philosophizing well bestowed by them, and 
undertaken by us? But, if virtue, exposed to 
various and uncertain accidents, is but the slave 
of fortune, and has not the requisite energies for 
her own defence, I am fearful, that, instead of 
reposing our hopes of happiness in the confidence 
of virtue, we shall be left to the frail resource of 
wishing. Candidly, when revolving with myself 
those disasters in which fortune has exercised me 
so vehemently, I begin to have doubts of this 
opinion, and sometimes to dread the weakness and 
fragility of the human race. For I grow appre- 
hensive lest nature, since she has given us infirm 
bodies, coupled with incurable diseases and intol- 
erable pains, gave us also minds at once congruent 
to the pains of the body, and separately embar- 
rassed with troubles and anguish of their own. 
But I check myself in this, because perhaps I esti- 
mate the resources of virtue more by the weakness 
of others and my own, than by her own abundant 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 249 

energies. For virtue, at least if such a thing there 
be, — which doubt, my dear Brutus, your uncle 
has removed, — holds beneath her all that can 
happen to man ; and, viewing it with disdain, 
despises human accidents; and, exempt from all 
fault, she deems nothing her own but herself. 
But we, exaggerating all adverse things, as they 
approach, by fear, and when present, by grief, 
prefer to condemn the nature of things, instead of 
our own error. But the whole correction of this 
fault, as well as the rest of our vices and trespass- 
es, is to be sought from philosophy ; into whose 
bosom, when choice and. delight in study had im- 
pelled us from the earliest period of our age, after 
the tossings of a violent tempest, we have fled for 
refuge from these most heavy chances, to the 
same port whence we had departed. O philoso- 
phy, thou guide of life ! O inventress of virtue, 
and victress of the vices ! what could not only 
we, but the life of man altogether, have been 
without thee ? Thou hast brought forth cities ; 
thou hast convoked scattered men to social life ; 
thou hast conjoined them, first by their dwellings, 
then by the ties of marriage, then by communion of 
letters and of speech ; thou hast been the foundress 
of laws, thou the preceptress of morals and of 
government. To thee is our refuge : from thee 
21* 



250 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

we implore succour : to thee we devote ourselves? 
as aforetime for the most part, so now absolutely 
and totally. But one day well spent, and accord- 
ing to thy precepts, is to be preferred to peccant 
immortality. For, to whose assistance should we 
have recourse sooner than thine ? who at once 
hast bestowed upon us tranquillity of life, and 
relieved us from the terrour of death. But, so far 
is philosophy from receiving the praises she merits 
from the life of man, that, neglected by the most, 
she is even reproached by many. Will any one 
dare to reproach the parent of life, and taint him- 
self with this parricide, and become so impiously 
ungrateful as to vituperate her, whom he ought to 
revere, even though he should scarce be able to 
comprehend ? But, as I presume, this error and 
this darkness has muffled the minds of the un- 
learned, because they cannot look so far back, and 
are not apprized that they, by whom, the life of 
man was first instructed, were philosophers. This 
thing, which we shall see was of the highest 
antiquity, yet its name we acknowledge to be 
recent. For, indeed, who can deny wisdom her- 
self to be ancient, not only in point of fact, but 
also in the name ? who, by the knowledge of 
things divine and human, and the causes of every 
thing, acquired this most beautiful name with the 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 251 

ancients. And thus, as well those seven, called 
voyoi by the Greeks, were reputed and named by 
our countrymen wise men ; as Lycurgus, many 
ages before, in whose time the tradition is, that 
Homer existed, prior to the foundation of this city : 
even in the Heroic ages, it is transmitted, that 
Ulysses, and Nestor, both were, and were reputed, 
wise men. Nor, indeed, should we have had the 
tradition, that Atlas supported the heavens, nor of 
Prometheus fastened to Caucasus, nor of Cepheus 
constellated, with his wife, son-in-law, and daugh- 
ter, unless a divine knowledge of the celestial 
phenomena had transferred their names to the 
error of fable : from whom downwards, all who 
devoted their studies to the contemplation of 
things, were deemed and denominated wise men, 
and continued to be known by that name until 
the age of Pythagoras ; who, as we gather from 
Heraclides Ponticus, a disciple of Plato, of first 
eminence for learning, having come, it was said, 
to Phlius, and discoursed upon certain topics with 
great knowledge and copiousness, at an interview 
with Leon, prince of the Phliasians, Leon, who 
admired his genius and eloquence, inquired of him 
what art he more especially professed. Pythago- 
ras replied, that, indeed, he knew no art, but was 
a philosopher. Leon, struck at the novelty of the 



252 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

name, asked who those philosophers were, and 
wherein they differed from the rest of the world. 
Pythagoras is said to have answered, " that the 
life of man appeared to him much like that fair, 
which, being held with splendid exhibition of 
games, attracted all Greece to unite in its celebra- 
tion ; for some attended it in order by the exer- 
cises of the body, to acquire the crown of glory 
and renown ; others, in quest of advantage and 
profit, through buying and selling ; while a certain 
class, and that by far the most noble, in search 
neither of glory nor gain, repaired to it for the 
purpose of looking on, and to study the scene as 
it passed, and observe how every thing was man- 
aged. In like manner, we had come from another 
life and nature, as from some city, into this life, as 
to the celebration of a certain fair ; some to slave 
for money, others for distinction, while a rare 
genus, holding all other interests as nothing, stu- 
diously examined the nature of things, and called 
themselves the studiers of wisdom ; for such are 
philosophers : and as, at a fair, the noblest part is 
that of the spectator, in search of nothing for him- 
self ; so, in life, the contemplation and knowledge 
of things is by far the most excellent of all other 
pursuits. 5 ' Nor, indeed, was Pythagoras inventor 
of the name only, but an amplifier also of things 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 253 

themselves ; for, subsequent to this Phliasian dis- 
course, when he had come into Italy, he embel- 
lished that Greece which is called the Great, both 
privately and publickly, with the most excellent 
institutions and arts. For the details of his disci- 
pline, perhaps another occasion will offer itself. 
But, from the ancient date of philosophy down to 
Socrates, who had listened to Archelaus, the dis- 
ciple of Anaxagoras, the subjects treated were 
numbers and motions ; whence all things arose, 
and into what they resolved themselves : and, 
especially, they explored the magnitude, intervals, 
and courses of the stars, with all the phenomena 
of the skies. But Socrates first called philosophy 
down from heaven, and established her in cities, 
and even introduced her into houses, and con- 
strained her to inquire concerning life and man- 
ners, and good and evil things. His diversified 
manner of discourse, variety of subjects, and mag- 
nitude of genius, consecrated by the memory and 
writings of Plato, gave rise to many sorts of dis- 
senting philosophers. Among these, we especially 
adopt that which we think Socrates employed : 
that, without disclosing our own opinion, we ex- 
tricate others from error, and, in every point of 
disputation, search for what has the greatest re- 
semblance of truth. To this manner, as Carneades 



254 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

adhered with the greatest acuteness and eloquence, 
so we, both at other times often, and lately at the 
Tusculan, have endeavoured to exercise this meth- 
od of disputation. And, indeed, we have trans- 
mitted thee, in books, the record of our discourse 
on the four preceding days; but, on the fifth, 
when we were all seated in the same place, the 
subject of our disputation was thus proposed : 

Auditor. It does not appear to me, that virtue 
has the requisite force for a happy life. 

Marcus. But, by Hercules, it appears so to 
my Brutus : whose judgment I pray your leave to 
say, I value fully more than thine. 

Auditor. No doubt. Neither is that the ques- 
tion, how much thou lovest him ; but what is to 
be thought, of what I said appeared to me : this is 
the point I wish to hear thee discuss. 

Marcus. Namely, you deny that virtue is able 
to render life happy. 

Auditor. I deny it, resolutely. 

Marcus. What ! has virtue sufficient resources 
for living rightly, honestly, laudably, and in a 
word, for a good life ? 

Auditor. Certainly, sufficient. 

Marcus. Then can you either assert, that he 
who lives ill, is not miserable ; or deny, that he 
lives happily, whom you confess to live well ? 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 255 

Auditor. Why could I not ? for it is possible, 
even in torment, to live rightly, honestly, lauda- 
bly, and therefore well ; only understand what I 
now call well, for I intend by it gravely, wisely, 
bravely ; for these may be attached to the rack, 
for which happy life has no aspirations. 

Marcus. What then ? I pray, is happy life to 
be left alone without the door and threshold of the 
prison, when constancy, gravity, fortitude, wis- 
dom, and the rest of the virtues are hurried to the 
torture, and shrink from neither punishment nor 
pain? 

Auditor. You must search for something new, 
if you are about to effect any thing. For those 
flourishes have not the least weight with me. not 
only because they are worn out, but much more, 
because, like certain light wines, good for nothing 
in water, these drops of the Stoics are better 
tasted than swallowed. Although that chorus of the 
virtues arranged upon the rack, has brought before 
the eyes images of such transcendent dignity, 
that it should appear, happy life would repair to 
them upon the rush, nor suffer them to be deserted 
by her. Yet, when thou hast drawn off the sight 
from that picture, and from the dazzling features 
of the virtues, to the fact and the truth, this is 
left naked, — can any man be happy, so long as he 



256 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

is tortured ? Wherefore let us look after this ; and 
never fear the virtues will expostulate and com- 
plain of being deserted by happy life. For, since 
no virtue is void of prudence, prudence herself 
sees this ; that not all the good are also happy : and 
she recollects many things to that point, in regard to 
Manius Atilius Regulus, Gluintus Caepio, Manius 
Aquilius : happy life, if it suits better to deal in 
fancy than in things themselves, is withheld by 
prudence herself, who assures her, that she has 
nothing in common with pain and torment. 

Marcus. I cheerfully suffer you to act in this 
manner ; although it is wrong for you to prescribe 
the mode in which you would have me pursue 
my argument. But I would inquire whether we 
shall suppose that something has been done on the 
preceding days, or nothing* 

Auditor. There was work done, indeed; and 
of some consequence, too. 

Marcus. But, if that be so, this question is 
already settled, and almost conducted to its exit. 

Auditor. In what manner, I pray ? 

Marcus. Because the turbulence and fluctua- 
tions of excited minds, elated with inconsiderate 
impulse, setting all reason at defiance, leave no 
part of happy life. For who that fears death or 
pain, one of which is often present, the other 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 257 

always impending, can fail to be unhappy? What 
if the same person — which commonly happens — 
should fear poverty, disgrace, infamy ; if infirmity, 
blindness; finally, if — what often occurs, not 
only to single citizens, but even to powerful na- 
tions — servitude; can any one who dreads such 
disasters be happy ? What ! if the man not only 
dreads these at a distance, but actually suffers and 
smarts under them present ? add to the mass, 
exiles, griefs, bereavements. Can the man who 
is overwhelmed and crushed by this load of sor- 
rows fall short, at length, of perfect misery ? But 
how is it with that man whom we see on fire, and 
raging with desires, rabidly craving all things 
with insatiable cupidity, and the more abundantly 
he gorges himself with pleasures on all hands, 
hankering and thirsting with the more furious 
appetite ? might you not rightly pronounce him 
extremely unhappy? But as for that other, up- 
lifted with levity, exulting and bounding with 
temerity, through empty joy, — is he not the more 
miserable, the more he appears to himself blest ? 
Then, as these are not happy, so, on the contrary, 
the happy are they whom no fears alarm, no sor- 
rows corrode, no desires inflame, no futile, feverish 
joys dissolve in the swoons of pleasure. Then, as 
a calm sea is understood to exclude all, even the 
22 



258 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

least perceptible undulation, so a tranquil and 
quiet state of the mind exists when there is not a 
perturbation by which it can be ruffled. Because, 
if there is a man who thinks the blows of fortune, 
and all human events that can happen, tolerable, 
whence neither fear nor sorrow can reach him, 
who covets nothing, nor is dizzied by the trans- 
ports of an empty joy, what is there wanting to 
render him happy ? and, if these are the effects of 
virtue, why is it that virtue herself cannot procure 
us happiness ? 

Auditor, Then, on the one hand, it is impossi- 
ble to say, that they who fear nothing, grieve at 
nothing, covet nothing, are in. ecstasies at nothing, 
are not happy ; and so I give it up to you : but, 
on the other, I am no longer free. For, in the 
former disputations, it is demonstrated that the 
wise man is void of all perturbation of mind. 

Marcus. No doubt, then, the affair is finished ; 
for the question appears to have found its answer. 

Auditor. It looks very like it. 

Marcus. But, however, this is the custom of 
mathematicians, — not of philosophers. For the 
geometrician, when he purposes to teach a thing, 
if any of the problems he has explained before, 
appertains to the present, he takes it as granted 
and proved : they only show that which has not 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 259 

been shown before. Philosophers, on the contra- 
ry, concentrate upon the matter in hand whatever 
conduces to its illustration, although it has been 
treated elsewhere. Because, were it otherwise, 
why should the Stoic, if asked whether virtue 
suffices to happiness, have scope for long discourse ? 
for he had said enough, should he answer ; having 
already shown that nothing is good but honesty ; 
which being evident, it follows, of course, that a 
happy life consists in virtue ; and as this is conse- 
quent to that, so is that to this ; so that, if a happy 
life be contained in virtue, then there is nothing 
good but the honest. But yet, they do not pro- 
ceed thus ; for there are separate books for the 
honest, and for the chief good ; and when it is 
thus demonstrated that there is force enough in 
virtue for living happily, they still treat of this 
separately. For every thing should be treated 
with its own appropriate arguments and admoni- 
tions, and especially so important a thing. For, 
banish the thought, that ever a nobler voice has 
fallen from the lips of philosophy, or that any 
promise of hers is more exuberant, or more sub- 
lime. For what does she profess ? Good heavens ! 
whoever shall obey her precepts, she will always 
arm in proof against fortune : he shall always 
have resources in himself ample for a good and for 



260 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

a happy life : in a word, that he shall be forever 
blest. But I shall see how she will perform. 
Meanwhile, I deem the promise itself of inestima- 
ble value. For Xerxes, indeed, loaded with all 
the prizes and bounties of fortune, not content with 
his masses of cavalry, his myriads of infantry, not 
with his numerous fleets, nor his infinite tons of 
gold, proclaimed a reward for whoever should 
invent a new pleasure ; nor with that would he 
have been content ; for lust will have never an 
end. We should wish we could elicit by recom- 
pense any one who would bring us something to 
make us believe this more firmly. 

Auditor. I unite in that wish, indeed ; but I 
have a slight difficulty, I would thank you to 
clear. For I see the consistency of what you 
have laid down, — that the one is consequent to 
the other ; as, how, if honesty be the only good, 
it follows that a happy life is achieved by virtue ; 
so, if happy life be found in virtue, then nothing 
but virtue is good. But your friend Brutus, with 
sanction of Aristo and Antiochus, does not think 
thus : he ascribes this effect to virtue, even admit- 
ting other things good besides. 

Marcus. What, then ! dost think I am going 
to speak against Brutus ? 

Auditor. You will act your pleasure, of course ; 
for it is not for me to prescribe. 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 261 

Marcus. Then, as to the consistency of the 
several systems in another place. For I have 
often disputed this point, both with Antiochus 
frequently, and lately with Aristo, when imperator 
I lodged with him at Athens. For it appeared to 
me impossible for any one to be happy, when in 
evils ; but the wise man might be in evils, pro- 
vided evils there be of the body and fortune. 
The same things were said which Antiochus has 
also written in many parts of his works : virtue of 
herself is able to render life happy, yet not happy 
to the utmost ; and then, most things are named 
from the greater part, though partially defective ; 
as strength, riches, honour, glory ; which are val- 
ued in general, — not by number : so with happy 
life, though blemished in some part, yet for much 
the greater part it obtains the name. It is not very 
material to probe this matter at present ; although 
it does not appear to rest on very satisfactory 
ground. For I do not perceive, in the first place, 
what the man who is happy should need to make 
him happier ; for, if something is wanting, he cer- 
tainly is not happy ; and as to their saying that 
every thing is estimated, and takes appellation 
from the greater part, I allow it to be valid in its 
place. But, when they say there are three kinds 
of good, he that should be assailed by all the evils 
22* 



262 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

of two kinds, so that, in fortune he shall have 
every thing adverse, his body seized and wasted 
by all possible pains, — should we say of such a 
man, that he wanted but little of a happy life, to 
say nothing of supremely happy ? This is more 
than Theophrastus could sustain ; for, when he 
had established, that scourging, torments, torture, 
subversions of country, exiles, bereavements, have 
powerful effect in producing the unhappiness and 
misery of life, he had not courage to employ the 
lofty and ample style, when his sentiment was 
humble and trailing. How well-grounded is not 
the question ; but certainly at least consistent. 
And thus, I do not usually approve the reprehen- 
sion of consequences, when thou hast conceded 
the premises. But this most elegant and accom- 
plished of all philosophers is not much to blame, 
since he says there are three kinds of good ; yet 
he is assailed on all hands, especially for the book 
he wrote upon happy life, where he argues dif- 
fusely to show that the man who is tortured and 
tormented is not happy. He is reputed to have 
said, somewhere in the same book, that the happy 
life does not mount the wheel ; indeed, he no- 
where says that in terms, but he says what 
amounts to it. Then, after granting a man, that 
pains of the body are to be deemed evils, that the 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 263 

derangements of fortune are to be deemed evils, 
can I complain of his saying that all the good are 
not happy, when all the good are exposed to what 
he numbers with evils ? The same Theophrastus 
is censured in the books and schools of all philoso- 
phers, because he praised this sentiment of his 
friend Callisthenes : 

"Not wisdom, but fortune, is the mistress of life." 

They say that nothing more languid was ever 
uttered by a philosopher. Rightly pronounced, 
no doubt ; but I can conceive of nothing, however, 
that could be said more consistently. For, if there 
are so many things in the body, and so many 
without it, exposed to chance and fortune, is it 
not, of course, that fortune, who is queen of out- 
ward things, and all that concerns the body, should 
carry the palm from counsel ? Or, shall we prefer 
to imitate Epicurus ? who often says many things 
that are excellent ; but how consequent, or con- 
sistent with himself, he never stops to inquire. 
He praises a plain table. This becomes the phi- 
losopher, no doubt ; but if Socrates or Antisthenes 
should say it, — not the man who declares pleasure 
the end of all goods. He pronounces that no man 
can live pleasantly, without living honestly, wise- 
ly, and justly. Nothing more grave, nothing 



264 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

more worthy of philosophy, had he not devoted 
this honesty, wisdom, and justice to pleasure. 
What can be better than to endow the wise man 
with fortune within measure? But, is he to say 
this, who, when he looks at pain not only as the 
maximum of evil, but as the sole evil, might be 
attacked by the sharpest pains of the body, in the 
midst of his bravest boast of contempt of fortune ? 
The same thought occurs also to Metrodorus, with 
better words : " Fortune, I have surrounded and 
mastered thee ; I have blockaded all thy passages, 
so thou canst not even breathe upon me." Sub- 
lime, if said by the Chian Aristo, or the Stoical 
Zeno, who deem nothing an evil but what is 
wrong. But thou, Metrodorus, who dost treasure 
all good in thy entrails and marrow, and hast de- 
fined the chief good, a robust constitution of body, 
with sanguine assurance of its continuance, hast 
blockaded the approaches of fortune ! in what 
manner ? For of that good thou mayst be stripped 
at the instant. But the superficial are caught 
thus ; and from phrases of this sort, there is mul- 
titude of proselytes to that school. But it belongs 
to the profound reasoner to look, not at what every 
one says, but at what he must say, if consistent 
with himself. As in this very opinion which we 
have undertaken to advocate, we have to show 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 265 

that all the good are at all times happy. What I 
understand by good is perfectly plain. For such 
as are furnished and adorned with all the virtues, 
we say are wise as well as good men. Let us see 
who are to be called happy. 

I think the man who is in fruition of good, 
altogether unmingled with evil. Nor is there any 
other idea conveyed by the word happy, but the 
complete embrace of good to the utter exclusion 
of evil. Virtue must despair of this, if aught but 
herself be good. For there will be a host of evils, 
if we give that name to poverty, obscurity, soli- 
tude, humility, loss of friends, sharp pains of the 
body, ruined health, infirmity, blindness, conquest 
of country, and, finally, servitude. For to these 
vicissitudes, many and great as they are, — and a 
multitude more are possible, — the wise man is 
exposed ; for they are at the disposal of chance, 
against which the wise man has no shield. But, 
if these are evils, who can warrant the wise man 
shall always be happy, when, at one plunge he 
may be overwhelmed by them all ? Wherefore, 
I cannot easily concede, whether to my friend 
Brutus, or to the common masters, nor yet to those 
ancients, — Aristotle, Speusippus, Xenocrates, Po- 
lemo, — that, when they account what I have 
enumerated among evils, they shall say the wise 



266 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

man is always happy ; who, if they delight in this 
noble and beautiful title, worthy of Pythagoras, 
Socrates, Plato, let them bring their minds to 
despise the things which captivate them with 
their splendour, strength, health, beauty, riches, 
honours, power, and to deem their contraries as 
nothing ; then they may profess, with trumpet 
tongues, that they neither fear the force of fortune, 
nor popular opinion, nor pain, nor poverty ; that 
they have placed all their things within them- 
selves, and there is nothing out of their power 
which they denominate good. For to hold this 
language proper to the great and exalted man, and 
to hold for good and for evil the same things with 
the vulgar, is • not to be allowed by any means at 
all. Emulous of this glory, Epicurus starts erect : 
even to him, — Heaven help us ! — the wise man 
appears always happy. The man is caught by 
the dignity of the sentiment. But never would 
he utter it, did he listen to himself. For what is 
less consonant, than for the man who deems pain 
the worst or sole evil, to assert, that the sage, 
while under the sharpest torture, will exclaim, 
" How sweet it is ! " Then philosophers are not 
to be revered for sounding phrases, but for consis- 
tency, and the perpetuity of constancy. 

Auditor. You have brought me to be of your 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 267 

mind. But have a care, lest your own constancy 
lie open to impeachment. 

Marcus. In what point? 

Auditor. Because I have lately been reading 
your fourth book de Finibus. There, I thought, 
when discoursing against Cato, you endeavoured to 
show — what I have no doubt of, myself — that all 
the difference between Zeno and the Peripatetics, 
consists in the innovation of words. And if so, 
what reason can there be, why, if, according to 
the system of Zeno, the force of virtue is ample to 
secure happiness, it should be inadmissible for the 
Peripatetics to assert the same ? for I think we 
should look at things, not words. 

Marcus. Indeed, you support your charge w T ith 
sealed papers, and the testimony of my own for- 
mer writings or sayings. Bear down in that 
way upon others, who dispute in the fetters of 
laws. Do we live by the day ? Whatever im- 
presses our minds with probability, to that we 
give utterance. And thus we only are free. But, 
however, since we have spoken about constancy 
• not very long since, I do not think this the place 
to inquire as to the truth of what Zeno says, as 
also Aristo his hearer, — that honesty is the sole 
good : but, provided it is true, then the sole reli- 
ance for a happy life is to be placed in virtue. 



268 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Wherefore, after all, let us concede this to Brutus, 
that the wise man is to be always happy. How 
consistent with himself, let him be his own judge. 
Indeed, who is more worthy of the glory of this 
sentiment than that great man ? But yet let us 
hold that the sage is to be supremely happy : 
although Zeno of Citium, in truth an adventurer, 
and an ignoble coiner of words, appears to have 
thrust himself into the ancient philosophy. Let 
the gravity of this sentiment be traced up to Plato — 
with whom this language is often used — that noth- 
ing but virtue is to be deemed good : as Socrates, 
in the Gorgias, when asked if he did not think 
Archelaus, the son of Perdiccas, who passed for 
the most fortunate man of his time, a happy man ? 
" I do not know," he said, " for I have never con- 
versed with him." What did you say? can you 
know it no otherwise? "By no means." Then 
you could not say even of the great king of Persia, 
whether he is happy or not ? " How could I, 
without knowing how learned, how good a man 
he is ? " What ! dost think a happy life to consist 
in that? " I certainly do think so ; the good are 
the happy, the wicked miserable." Then Arche- 
laus is unhappy? "Certainly, if unjust." Is it 
not evident that he places happiness in virtue 
alone? But then in the epitaph, how does he 
express himself ? 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 269 

" For to that man, who has at command from 
himself all that renders life happy, so detached 
from the good or ill chances of others, that it 
cannot be affected, nor endangered by the events 
which befall them ; for him is secured the best 
mode of living. This is the moderate man ; this 
is the hero ; this is the sage, who, alike at the birth 
and bereavement of all that is pleasant, and espe- 
cially of children, will bear in mind, and obey 
this ancient precept : 

He ne'er will joy nor grieve with fond excess. 
Whose bosom ever treasures all his hope. 

Then from this sentiment of Plato, as from a cer- 
tain sacred and august fountain, all our discourse 
will flow. And whence can we take up its thread 
more rightly than from nature, the common pa- 
rent ? Who has designed that all she has given 
birth to, — not the animal only, but also what so 
springs from the earth as to rest upon its own 
roots, — should be perfect, every thing in its kind. 
And thus, as well the trees and vines as the hum- 
bler plants, that can rear themselves but little 
from the earth : some are always green ; some, 
naked in winter, revived by the vernal warmth, 
resume their foliage : and not one but so flourishes, 
from a certain interior motion, and the same also 
23 



270 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

lodged in its own seeds, that it yields either 
flowers, or grains, or fruits; and every thing in 
each, so far as relates to itself, and checked by no 
impeding violence, is perfect. But, indeed, the 
force of nature is seen even more distinctly in the 
brutes, because she has given them sense. For 
some that swim, she destined for inmates of the 
waters ; others with wings, to enjoy the open 
sky ; some to creep, others to walk ; part even of 
these to roam solitary, part to herd together; part 
to be wild, others tame ; some to burrow, and 
some to be covered and concealed in the earth. 
And each one of them, tenacious of his own char- 
acter, and incapable of transition to the life of any 
unlike animal, is true to the law of his nature. 
And, as something special has been given by na- 
ture to the brutes, to distinguish them one from 
another, and each retains his own trait, and never 
departs from it, so she has given to man some- 
thing far more excellent ; although things should 
be called excellent, which admit of comparison. 
But the human soul, a scion from the divine 
mind, can be compared with no other, if it could 
be said with due reverence, than with God him- 
self. This soul, then, if thoroughly cultured, if its 
sight be cured, so as not to be blinded with errors, 
becomes perfect intellect ; that is, absolute reason ; 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 271 

which is the same as virtue. And since every 
thing is happy, to which there is nothing defi- 
cient, and which is perfect and complete in its 
own kind ; and since such is the characteristic of 
virtue, certainly all the virtuous are happy. And, 
indeed, as to this point, I have the concurrence not 
only of Brutus, but also of Aristotle, Xenocrates, 
Speusippus, Polemo. But to me they appear 
even supremely happy. For what is there want- 
ing to happiness for him who confides in his 
goods ? or how can he be happy who doubts their 
safety ? But doubt it he must, who divides them 
into three parcels. For who can place confidence 
either in the health of the body, or in the stability 
of fortune ? But, unless the good be stable, and 
fixed, and permanent, no man can be happy. But 
which of these perishable things can come under 
this description? So that the saying of Lacon 
appears to me to fit them ; who said to a certain 
merchant, boasting that he had many ships abroad 
over the whole maritime coast, — -" Assuredly such 
a fortune, lashed to cables, is not desirable." Can 
it be doubtful, that nothing which is liable to be 
lost, is to be numbered with the essential resources 
of a happy life ? For, among the requisites of 
happiness, there should be nothing that can wither, 
nothing that can be extinguished, nothing that can 



272 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

fall. For whoever dreads the departure of any of 
these cannot be happy. The happy man must be 
safe, intrenched, fortified, impregnable : it is not 
enough, that he should have little to fear ; he must 
be exempt from all suspicion of fear. For, as the 
innocent man is not he that hurts but little, but he 
that never hurts at all ; so the man is to be deemed 
without fear, not who fears but little, but who has 
nothing to fear. For what else is fortitude but an 
affection of mind patiently encountering peril, toil, 
and pain, aloof from all fear? And, assuredly, 
this state of mind is impossible, unless all good is 
centred in honesty. For how can any one have 
this security, so greatly to be wished and desired, 
— for I now call security that freedom from sor- 
row, wherein happiness consists, — for whom there 
is present or impending a multitude of evils? or 
how could he be lofty and erect, and deem all 
human events of little consequence, as the wise 
man should, unless he feels that all his resources 
are lodged in himself? Did the Lacedaemonians, 
when Philip threatened them by letter, that he 
would prevent them in all their attempts, inquire 
of him whether he proposed to prevent them even 
to die ? Is not the man we seek more easily 
found, than a whole people inspired with such a 
spirit ? What ! when, added to this fortitude we 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 273 

have mentioned, there is temperance, to curb all 
commotions, what can be wanting to the man 
whom courage protects from sorrow and fear, and 
temperance shields at once from desire, and the 
illusions of insolent hilarity ? That such are the 
effects of virtue, I should show, unless it had been 
demonstrated on previous days. But when the 
perturbations render life unhappy, while their re- 
pose makes it happy — and since the mode of per- 
turbation is twofold — sorrow and fear having birth 
from reputed evils — the delirium of joy and desire, 
from the delusion of good, — when all these are 
repugnant to counsel and reason, and you see a 
man void, exempt, free from these excitements, so 
vehement, so discordant, so distracted by mutual 
conflicts, — will you hesitate to pronounce him 
happy ? But the wise man is always thus, and 
therefore always happy. But, besides, all good is 
delectable, and all that is delectable is to be 
spoken of, and circulated : whatever thus becomes 
the news, is glorious ;• if glorious, certainly lauda- 
ble ; but that which is laudable is, of course, also 
honest ; therefore, whatever is good, the same is 
honest. But what those others reckon among 
goods, they do not themselves raise to this honour. 
Therefore the honest is the only good. Whence 
it follows, that happy life is found in honesty 
23* 



274 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

alone. Then things are not to be reputed good, 
nor to bear the name, which a man may have in 
abundance ? and yet be miserable. If you saw a 
man flourishing in health, strength, beauty, his 
senses sound and searching^ - — add, if you choose, 
agility, speed ; give him riches, honours, provinces, 
power, and glory ; and, with them all, if unjust, 
intemperate, timid, narrow of genius, or wholly 
devoid of it, should you hesitate to pronounce him 
an unhappy man ? What sort of goods are they 
which, when accumulated all together, will not 
shield a man from misery ? Let us consider, as 
the store wheat should consist of winnowed grain, 
of its own kind, whether the happy life must not 
be composed of uniform elements. And if it be 
thus, the happy man is to be made so by goods 
which may all be named honest. From that 
medley of dissimilars, nothing honest can be 
shaped. With exclusion of the honest, how is 
happiness conceivable ? For all that is good, the 
same is to be sought ; but whatever is to be 
sought is, of course, to be approved ; whatever 
you approve must be held grateful and acceptable ; 
therefore, also, dignity is to be ascribed to it ; 
which, if so, it must, of course, be laudable; 
therefore all good is laudable. Whence it fol- 
lows, that the honest is the only good. For, 
unless we hold it to be thus, there will be 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 275 

many things that will have to be numbered 
with goods. I omit riches, which, because any 
one, however unworthy, may hold, I do not rank 
among goods. For whatever is good cannot be 
had by every one you please. I omit notoriety 
and popular fame, sounded by concert of fools and 
knaves. These, — which are very minute, yet 
must necessarily be enrolled among goods ; teeth of 
pearly whiteness, eyes of sparkling lustre, a sweet 
complexion, and that mellowness of voice, and 
smoothness of body, which Euryclea praises, when 
washing the feet of Ulysses ; — these, if we cata- 
logue with goods, what would there be in the 
gravity of the philosopher more profound or more 
noble than in the opinion of the vulgar, and the 
crowd of fools ? But these, which the others call 
goods, the Stoics term preferables, or conveniences. 
They distinguish them, it is true ; but the happy 
life is complete without their help : those, howev- 
er, think there is no such thing without them ; or, 
at least, if happy at all, not perfectly happy. But 
we will have it in the superlative, and found upon 
this Socratic argument for our support : " As' the 
mind of the man is affected, so will the man be ; 
but as the man is, so will his speech be ; as his 
speech is, so will his actions be ; and his life will 
correspond with his deeds. " The affection of the 
mind in a good man is laudable ; and therefore 



276 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

the life of a good man is laudable. Whence it is 
argued that the life of the good is happy. For, 
good heavens ! is it not clear enough from our 
former disputations, — or did we speak to beguile 
the time, and consume leisure, — that the wise 
man is always free of excitement of mind, which 
I call perturbation ? that his mind is always the 
seat of the most placid peace ? Then is the tem- 
perate, the constant, the fearless, the free of sor- 
row, of dizzy joy, of desire, not to be deemed 
happy ? But the wise man is always thus ; then 
he is always happy. But come ; how is it possi- 
ble the good man should not refer all his thoughts 
and actions to laudable aims ? Bat he refers them 
all to living happily. Then the happy life is 
laudable. But, without virtue, there is nothing 
laudable. Then the happy life is the fruit of 
virtue. Besides, this is argued thus : in unhappy 
life, there is nothing fit to be mentioned, or gloried 
in ; nor in a life that has no character, whether 
happy or unhappy. But, in some life, there is 
something worth mention, and to be gloried in, 
and that may be self-proclaimed ; as Epaminondas : 

"My counsels felled the towering fame of Sparta." 

As Africanus : 

" From morning's rays, that gild Maeotian lakes, 
Man cannot parallel his deeds with mine." 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 277 

If such a life exist, it is the happy life, which is 
to be spoken of, gloried in, and self-proclaimed ; 
for there is nothing else to be gloried in, and so 
proclaimed. From these positions, you understand 
what will follow ; and, indeed, unless the happy 
and the honest life were the same, there must be 
another life better than the happy ; because the 
honest would certainly be held the better. Thus 
it would result, that there is something better than 
a happy life ; than which, what can be uttered 
more absurd? What! when they confess there 
is force enough in vice to render life miserable, 
must they not confess there is vigour enough in 
virtue to render it happy ? for the consequences of 
contraries are contrary. And here I would inquire 
about the force of that balance of Critolaus ; who, 
when he puts into one scale the goods of the mind, 
and those of the body and fortune into the other, 
he thinks the scale of mental good so much the 
heaviest, that it would outweigh earth and seas. 
Then what should prevent either him, or even 
Xenocrates, the gravest of philosophers, so much 
does he exaggerate virtue, and extenuate and re- 
ject the rest, from placing in virtue not only a 
happy, but supremely happy life ? For, unless it 
be thus, the cause of virtue is lost ; since whoever 
is subject to sorrow, is liable ; of course, to fear ; for 



278 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

fear is the apprehension of future sorrow. But 
whoever is subject to fear, is equally so to timidi- 
ty, dread, dismay, cowardice ; then he will at 
some time inevitably be vanquished, nor think 
this precept of Atreus made for him : 

" Therefore, so let them arm themselves in life. 
That, to be conquered, they shall never learn." 

This man, as I have said, will be vanquished ; but 
he will not be vanquished only ; he will be en- 
slaved. But we will have virtue always free, 
always invincible ; which things must be, or vir- 
tue is banished. But, if the resources of virtue 
are sufficient for living well, they are sufficient 
also to happiness. For there is certainly enough 
in virtue for living with courage ; and if with 
courage, of course also with magnanimity ; and, 
indeed, that we should be always fearless and 
invincible. It follows, that there will be nothing 
to regret, nothing to obstruct, nothing wanting ; 
therefore, that all things will flow to the wish, 
freely, prosperously, and of course happily. Thus, 
virtue is sufficient for living with fortitude, and 
therefore to a happy life. For, as folly, though 
crowned with her wish, never thinks she has 
gained enough, so wisdom is always content with 
what she has, and is never displeased with herself. 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 279 

Do you compare the single consulship of Caius 
Laelius, and that even with repulse, with the four 
of Lucius Cinna ? if, when a wise and good man, 
as Laelius was, is passed by the suffrages, the 
people rather are not repulsed from a good consul, 
than he by a bad people ; but yet, had you the 
option, whether would you prefer, once, as Laelius, 
or, as Cinna, four ? I have no doubt, what you 
are about to answer ; and so I am careful to whom 
I commit myself. I would not put this option to 
every one. For some would answer, perhaps, 
that they not only preferred four consulships to 
one, but one day of Cinna to the whole lives of 
many of the most distinguished men. Lselius, 
had he laid his finger roughly on any one, would 
have been punished ; but Cinna commanded the 
head of his colleague, Cneius Octavius, to be 
struck off; that of Publius Crassus, of Lucius 
Caesar, men of the most noble rank, conspicuous 
for virtue, alike in civil and military eminence ; of 
Marcus Antonius, the most eloquent of all the 
orators I ever heard ; of Caius Caesar, in whom, 
it appeared to me, there was the specimen of 
humanity, wit, urbanity, and elegance. Then, 
was he happy because he slew these men ? On 
the contrary, he appears to me not only miserable 
in having done these things, but also in having so 



280 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

carried himself, that it should be allowable for 
him to do them ; although it is allowable for no 
man to do wrong. But we slip through fault of 
language. For we call that allowable, which is 
conceded to any one. Meanwhile, whether was 
Caius Marius happier at the time he shared with 
his colleague Catulus, almost another Laelius, — 
for I think he resembled him extremely, — the 
glory of the Cimbrian victory ; or when victor in 
the civil war, infuriate with anger, he answered 
the near friends of Catulus, interceding for him 
with prayers, not once, but often, Moriaiur: let 
him die ? wherein, happier was he who obeyed 
that nefarious voice, than he who commanded so 
atrociously. For at once it is better to receive 
than to do wrong ; and to advance a few steps to 
meet death, already itself near at hand, as Catulus 
did, than, as Marius, by the destruction of so il- 
lustrious a man, to whelm in ruin his six consul- 
ships, and contaminate the extreme epoch of his 
age. 

Eight-and-thirty years, Dionysius was tyrant of 
the Syracusians ; having seized the domination 
when he was twenty-five years of age. A city of 
what beauty, a state furnished with what re- 
sources, did he hold in the oppression of servi- 
tude ! But we learn from the writings of good 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 281 

authors, concerning this man, that his temperance 
of diet was extreme ; that he was shrewd and 
industrious in the transaction of affairs ; but yet, 
by nature, unjust and malignant. By which, he 
will appear to all who discern the truth, to have 
been necessarily the most miserable of men ; for 
he had not indeed obtained the thing he coveted, 
not even when he judged that all things were at 
his command. For, though of good parentage, 
and born of honourable rank, — in this pointy 
however, authors differ a little, — and when he 
abounded in the friendships of his equals, and 
familiar intimacy of his kindred, and, after the 
Grecian custom, had certain companions among 
his youthful associates, attached by the ties of 
congenial tastes, he intrusted himself to none of 
them ; but to slaves he had selected from among 
the servants of the opulent, and from whom he 
removed the name of servitude, and to certain 
foreign adventurers, and savage barbarians, he 
confided the custody of his person. Thus, on 
account of the unjust desire of domination, he 
had in a manner shut himself up in prison. But, 
moreover, that he might not peril his neck with a 
barber, he taught his own daughters to shave him. 
Thus, the royal damsels, accomplished in this 
sordid and menial trade, like handmaid barbers, 
24 



282 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

trimmed the hair and the beard of the father. 
But, when grown adult, he removed steel even 
from these, and made them perform this part of 
his toilet with live coals from the husks of wal- 
nuts. And when he had two wives, Aristomache, 
his townswoman, and Doris of Locris, he used to 
secure a safe approach to their chambers at night, 
by sending a party in advance to explore the 
apartments, and to scrutinize every possible covert 
for treachery. And, when he had surrounded his 
conjugal bed with a wide fosse, and thrown across 
it a wooden drawbridge, after thoroughly securing 
the door of the chamber, he managed the draw for 
himself. And when he was afraid to address the 
people from the ordinary scaffoldings, he used to 
harangue them from the summit of a lofty tower. 
And once, when preparing to play at ball, his 
favourite exercise, and had put off his tunic, he 
handed his sword, it is said, to a youth he was 
very fond of; and when one of his acquaintance 
had playfully said, "At least, to him thou dost 
intrust thy life," and the youth had smiled, he 
ordered them both to execution : the one for 
showing how he might be despatched, and the 
other for approving the hint by a smile. And he 
so grieved, after it was done, that he never, in his 
life, took any thing so heavily ; for he had slain 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 283 

the most beloved of his minions. Thus, the vio- 
lent are torn asunder by the fury of their conflict- 
ing passions. When they obey one, they have 
the other to combat : although this tyrant himself 
exhibited a specimen of his happiness. For when 
one of his flatterers, Damocles, had commemorated 
with fluency his resources, his power, the majesty 
of his crown, the opulence of his furniture, the 
magnificence of his royal palaces, and declared 
that man was never more happy, — " Since you are 
so delighted," said he, "with this life, Damocles, 
would you like to make trial of it yourself?" 
When he had said he should admire it, of all 
things, Dionysius ordered the man to be placed 
on a golden couch, beautifully spread with em- 
broidered draperies, wrought with magnificent 
pictures ; and furnished several beaufets with 
plate of silver richly enchased, and of gold with 
rarest sculpture. Youths of exquisite beauty 
were directed to wait at his table, and, observing 
his nod, to serve him at wish. Lavished were 
precious perfumes, flowery wreaths, and garlands ; 
fragrant odours were kindled ; the tables were 
served with all that was dainty and delicate. 
Damocles deemed himself the Fortunate. In the 
midst of this apparatus, a flashing sword was seen 
suspended from the ceiling by a horse-hair, so as 



284 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

to aim fair at the neck of this happy man. And 
thus he had no eyes for those beautiful youths 
who served him ; nor for the silver adorned with 
those exquisite masterpieces of art ; nor did he 
reach forth his hand to the table : already the 
floral crowns had fallen ; and at length he entreat' 
ed the tyrant, that he would allow him to depart ; 
for, at present, he would rather not be happy. 
Does it not appear sufficiently, that Dionysius was 
aware, to his sorrow, that nothing can be happy 
to him over whom there is always something 
impending ? And, indeed, it was no longer op- 
tional with him, to return to the path of justice, 
and to restore their liberty and rights to his coun- 
trymen. For, in the improvidence of youth, he 
had entangled himself in such errors, and commit- 
ted such atrocities, that he could not be safe, 
should he begin to be sound. But how much he 
felt the want of friendships, — - the perfidy of which 
he dreaded, — he manifested in the instance of the 
two Pythagoreans ; when one of whom had bailed 
himself to death, as security for the other's return, 
the other having punctually arrived to relieve his 
bondsman, at the hour for execution, — " I wish," 
said he, " I could be enrolled as third friend with 
you." How unhappy was this man, to want the 
solace of friendship, the intercourse of social Life, 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 285 

and all familiar converse whatever ! especially for 
a man of learning from childhood, and skilled in 
the liberal arts. Indeed, we are told he was a 
studious adept in music ; as also in tragic poetry : 
how good a poet, is nothing to the point. For, in 
this kind of writing,- — I know not how, -r— more 
than in others, his own seems a beauty to its 
author. I have never known a poet yet, — and I 
have lived in friendship with Aquinius, — who did 
not appear to himself a Homer. Thus the matter 
stands ; yours delight you, mine me. But to 
return to Dionysius : he was sequestered from 
all human society of life ; he lived with fugitives 
and malefactors — with barbarians ; he thought no 
man, who was worthy of freedom, or had any wish 
at all to be free, could be a friend to him. 

Now, I will not compare with this life, than 
which I can devise nothing more foul, more miser- 
able, more detestable, the life of Plato, or Arehy-? 
tas, men of learning and real wisdom. From the 
same city, I shall call up from the dust and the 
radius an humble cypher of a man, who lived many 
years after : Archimedes ; whose sepulchre, un- 
known by the Syracusians, since they denied that 
he had one at all, when Gluestor, I hunted out, 
surrounded, and invested on all sides with brambles 

and thickets. For I remembered certain trimeter 

24* 



286 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

verses, which mentioned that a sphere with a 
cylinder, were placed on the summit of his sepul- 
chre. When with the eyes I had reconnoitred 
every thing, — for without the Agragian gate is a 
great collection of sepulchres, — I remarked a little 
column just emerging from the thickets, upon 
which was a sphere and a cylinder. And I im- 
mediately said to the Syracusians, — for their 
principal men were with me, — I thought it must 
be the very object of my search. Many with 
scythes were sent to clear and open the approaches. 
And when the ground was cleansed, we walked 
up to the base : the epitaph appeared, the letters 
at the lower part almost half effaced by corrosion. 
Thus, the noblest city of Greece, and once the 
most learned, would have remained ignorant of 
the monument of their one citizen of most excel- 
ling genius, if they had not been introduced to it 
by a man from Arpinum. But let our discourse 
return to whence it digressed. What man out of 
all men, at least, if at all acquainted with the 
muses, — that is, with humanity and learning, — 
would not prefer to be this mathematician, rather 
than that tyrant? If we look at the mode and 
occupation of life, the intellect of the one was 
nurtured by the constant exercise and inventions 
of reason — with the delightful exertion of genius ; 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 287 

which is the one sweetest repast of minds : of the 
other with murders and atrocities — with perpetual 
dread by day, and horrours by night. Come, 
then ; compare Democritus, Pythagoras, Anaxago- 
ras. What kingdoms, what empires, do you deem 
preferable to their studies and delights ? For, in 
that part of man which is best, necessarily resides 
what thou seekest, — the best. But what is there 
in man better than a good and sagacious intellect ? 
Then this is the good we must enjoy, if we wish 
to be happy. But the good of the mind is virtue. 
Then a happy life is contained, of course, in vir- 
tue. Hence all things which are beautiful, hon- 
est, noble, as I have said before, — but it appears 
to be said a little more copiously, -—are full of 
joys. But, when it is plain, that the happy life 
consists of perpetual and perfect joy, it follows, 
that it consists of honesty. But, in order not to 
sketch in words only, the objects we wish to 
show, we shall set before the view certain scenes 
in movement, as it were, which may convert us 
more to knowledge and understanding. For let 
us imagine a man accomplished in the best arts, 
and let us dwell upon him with the mind and 
with the thought. In the first place, his genius is 
of the highest order, of course ; for slow minds 
find it hard to keep pace with virtue : and then 



288 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

he is stimulated with intense desire for the dis- 
covery of truth ; from which a triple birth of the 
mind will be produced: one destined for the 
knowledge of things, and the interpretation of 
nature ; the next, for the exposition and definition 
of things to be pursued, and things to be avoided ; 
the third, for judging what things are consequent 
to every thing, and what things are repugnant : 
wherein consists all the acuteness of reasoning, 
and all the truth of judging. Then, with what 
joy must the mind of the wise man be affected, 
when he dwells and passes whole nights with 
cares like these ! and when he has looked through 
the motions and revolutions of the whole universe, 
and seen the innumerable stars inherent in heaven, 
fixed in certain seats, conform to its movements ! 
the other seven pursue their courses, at immense 
distance from each other, either in the upper or 
the lower regions of space, whose vague motions 
still trace the appointed and certain path of their 
orbits! The observation of these things, no 
doubt, impelled those ancients, and admonished 
them to seek for more. Hence arose the search 
for initial principles, and of the seeds, as it were, 
whence every thing was sprung, engendered, 
grown j and of the origin, life, dissolution of 
every kind> animate, inanimate, nxute> or vocal; 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 289 

and what were the vicissitudes and changes of one 
thing into another : whence the earth, and what 
the weights which balanced it, and by what cav- 
erns the seas were sustained; into which all 
things are directed by gravitation ; seeking al- 
ways the central point of the universe, which is 
the lowest in a sphere. The mind become fa- 
miliar with these objects, and, revolving them in 
thought by day and by night, attains the knowl- 
edge commanded by the Delphic god ; it knows 
itself, and feels its connexion with the divine 
mind, which fills it with inexhaustible delight. 
For the very contemplation of the power and 
nature of the gods inspires an ardent desire to 
imitate their eternity : nor will this mind think 
itself destined to the narrow confines of mortal 
life, when it sees the causes of things, one fitted 
to another, and linked together by necessity. 
This chain of causes, flowing from eternal time 
into eternity, is still guided by the sovereign rea- 
son and intelligence. Beholding these things, and 
looking up, or rather circling his glance to all 
parts, with what tranquillity of mind will he again 
consider these hither and human scenes ! Hence 
the knowledge of virtue exists ; the kinds and 
parts of the virtues flourish ; what nature kens as 
the extreme of good, and the ultimate of evil, is 



290 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

discovered,* to what aim the duties are to be 
directed ; and by what rule the method of life is 
to be modelled. These and the like things being 
ascertained, then even this which is the subject of 
our present disputation, is especially found, that 
virtue is content with herself for a happy exist- 
ence. 

The third follows, which is diffused and poured 
through all parts of wisdom ; which defines the 
thing, separates the kinds, adjoins the conse- 
quences, concludes the perfect, discriminates the 
true from the false ; the method and science of 
reasoning. From which there results both con- 
summate utility for the due estimation of things, 
and a delight the most noble, and worthy of wis- 
dom. But these for private life. Let this same 
sage pass to the helm of the Republic. What can 
be more excellent than that, when he sees the 
interests of the citizens embraced in his prudence, 
his justice diverting no part of them into his own 
house, and has the exercise of the rest of the 
virtues, so many and so various? adjoin the fruit 
of friendships, in which the learned have placed 
the consenting and almost conspiring counsels of 
the whole of life, together with the highest pleas- 
antness from daily intercourse and easy familiar 
discourse. At length, what is there wanting to 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 291 

this life, that could make it happier ; to which, 
crowded with so many and substantial enjoy- 
ments, even fortune herself must yield ? Because 
if to enjoy such goods of the mind — that is, such 
virtues — be happy, and all the wise do enjoy 
them to the utmost, it follows, that we must 
acknowledge they are all happy. 

Auditor. Even in torture, and in torment ? 

Marcus. Didst think I said in violet or in 
rose ? Shall it be allowed Epicurus, who only 
wore the mask of philosophy, and ascribed this 
name to himself by his own good-will and pleas- 
ure, to say, — which, as the fact is, he may say 
with all applause from me, - — " There is never a 
•time, when the wise man, though burned, tor- 
mented, hewed, could not exclaim, l How I despise 
it! ' " especially when he defines all evil in pain, 
all good in pleasure ; derides these our honesties 
and turpitudes ; says we are charmed with voices, 
and spout empty sounds; that nothing truly con- 
cerns us besides what is rough or smooth to the 
senses. Shall this man, differing not much from 
the judgment of wild beasts, as I have said, be 
allowed to forget himself, and at once despise 
fortune, when all his good and evil are in her 
power ; and in the midst of exquisite torture and 
torment, say he is happy, when he has pronounced 



292 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

pain not only the worst, but the sole evil ? Nor has 
even provided himself with these remedies for the 
toleration of pain, — firmness of mind, the shame of 
turpitude, the exercise and habit of suffering, the 
precepts of courage, manly hardihood ; but says he 
reposes himself in the single recollection of past 
pleasures ; as if a man, sweltered by intolerably 
sultry weather, should call to mind, that, some 
time or other, he had enjoyed the delicious cool- 
ness of our gardens of Arpinum, surrounded by 
refreshing rivers. For I do not see in what mode 
the pleasures of the past can appease the pains of 
the present. But when he says the wise man is 
always happy, who could not say it, if he were 
consistent with himself; what may be done by 
those, who think nothing to be pursued, nothing 
to be deemed good, that wants the lustre of virtue ? 
With my authority even the Peripatetics may 
leave at length their stammering, and dare openly, 
and with a loud voice, to declare that the happy 
life will descend into the bull of Phalaris. For 
even let there be three kinds of goods, that we 
may now withdraw from the toils of the Stoics, 
which, I am aware, I have used more than is 
usual with me. Even let there be three kinds of 
goods, so long as the advantages of the body and 
fortune lie on the ground, and are called good only 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 293 

because they are to be taken up ; but those others, 
which are divine, shall expand themselves far and 
wide, and touch the heavens: so that whoever 
attains them, wherefore should I only call him 
happy, and not the happiest of the happy ? But, 
then, the wise man will dread pain ? for pain is 
the grand enemy of this system. For against 
our own death, and against that of our friends, 
and against sorrow, and the rest of the perturba- 
tions, we appear to be sufficiently armed, by the 
disputations of the foregoing days. Pain appears 
the bitterest adversary of virtue. He brandishes 
his flaming torches ; he menaces that he will put 
down the strength of fortitude, magnanimity, 
patience. Shall virtue, then, surrender to pain ? 
Shall the happy life of the wise and constant man 
disappear at his presence ? Good heavens ! how base 
the thought ! The Spartan boys, mangled with 
painful scourgings, do not even groan. Crowds 
of young men, we have seen ourselves at Lacedae- 
mon, wrestling to the utmost with fists and feet, 
with nails, and even teeth ; that they would sooner 
part with life than dream of yielding. What part 
of Barbary is wilder or ruder than India ? Yet, in 
that nation, in the first place, they who pass for 
wise, spend their life naked, and brave the snows 
of Caucasus, and the chills of winter, without 
pain ; and, when they have applied themselves to 
25 



294 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

the flames, are burned up without a groan. In- 
deed, the women in India, when a husband of 
theirs is dead, go into a contest and judgment, 
which of them he loved the most. For several 
are commonly, married to a single spouse. The 
victress widow, full of joy and triumph, with pro- 
cession of friends, is placed in the flames with her 
husband ; the others, defeated, depart in sadness. 

Custom will never conquer nature ; for she is 
always invincible. But we infect the mind with 
the indulgence of shades, with delights, with lei- 
sure, with languor, with sloth ; we soften it with 
opinions, already in captivity to the corruption of 
custom. Who is ignorant of the creed of the 
Egyptians? whose minds imbued with the de- 
pravities of error, they will sooner submit to cru- 
cifixion, than hurt either an Ibis, or an asp, or a 
dog, or a cat, or a crocodile ; and, even if by acci- 
dent they should do them harm, will refuse no 
punishment. I speak of men. How of beasts? 
do they not tolerate the extremes of cold, of hun- 
ger, the hardships of the mountain roam, and the 
forest course ? will they not so battle for their 
young, as to welcome wounds ? will blows intimi- 
date, or violence impress them with fear ? I omit 
what the ambitious suffer and go through, to 
attain preferment, — the worshippers of glory for 
a name ; the frantic lover as the price of cupidity. 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 295 

Life abounds with examples. But let us check 
our digressive discourse, and return whence we 
departed. The happy life will, I insist, it will 
stand the test of torment ; nor, having accompa- 
nied justice, temperance, and especially courage, 
magnanimity, patience, will she pause at sight of 
the face of the tormentor ; nor, when all the vir- 
tues have fearlessly advanced to the torture, will 
she recoil, and, as I said before, stop without the 
gate and threshold of the prison. For what more 
foul and deformed than she, thus left by herself, a 
deserter from this most beautiful band? which, 
nevertheless, is altogether impossible to be. For 
neither can the virtues cohere without happy life, 
nor she without the virtues. And thus they will 
not permit her to turn about, but will take her 
with them to whatever pain or torture they are 
led. For it is proper to the wise man to do noth- 
ing he can ever repent, — nothing reluctant ; but 
every thing splendidly, constantly, gravely, hon- 
estly ; to expect nothing with such confidence as 
if it were certain to arrive ; to feel surprise at 
nothing when it happens, as if unexpected or 
new ; to refer all things to his own arbitration ; 
and to stand by his own judgments. 

What can be happier than such a man, it is 
certainly beyond my power to conceive. The 
argument of the Stoics is altogether easy. For, 



296 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

when they pronounce it the perfection of good to 
live after nature, and that this harmony with 
nature is competent to the sage, both in duty and 
power, it follows, of course, that whoever has the 
chief good at command, has the happy life. Thus, 
the life of the wise man is the home of happiness. 
You have, what I think is to be said with the 
greatest spirit concerning a happy life ; and, so 
far as appears, unless you can show something 
better, with the greatest truth. 

Auditor. Assuredly, I can show nothing better. 
But one thing I should be glad to obtain from you, 
if it would not be a trouble : since you are free 
of the fetters of particular systems, and as you sip 
from all, what bears the greatest resemblance of 
truth, — because, a little before, you appeared to 
exhort the Peripatetics and ancient Academics to 
speak without hesitation, and boldly declare the 
wise are supremely happy, — I wish to hear how 
you think it consistent for them to say this. For 
much has been said by you against that opinion, 
and argued upon the plan of the Stoics. 

Marcus. Then let us exercise the liberty 
which we alone can claim a right to use in phi- 
losophy; whose discourse judges nothing itself> 
but holds up the question in all its lights, so that 
it shall be clear enough, of itself, to be judged by 
others, unbiassed by the authority of any, And 3 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 297 

since you appear to wish, whatever the sys- 
tem of dissenting philosophers in regard to the 
definition of good, that virtue may still furnish the 
essentials of happiness ; which, indeed we are 
told was held by Carneades, but he used to dispute 
as the opponent of the Stoics, whom he always 
refuted with great eagerness, and against their 
discipline his whole soul was inflamed, — we 
shall explain the same views in a quiet manner. 
For, if the Stoics have rightly defined the boun- 
daries of good, the question is settled, — the wise 
man must inevitably be happy. But let us look 
at every one of the opinions of the rest, if it be 
possible, that this noble decree, as it were, of 
happy life may have the concurrence of all sys- 
tems and disciplines. But there are, of retained 
and defended opinions, I think, the following : — 
first, that are simple, four : nothing good but the 
honest, as the Stoics : nothing good but pleasure, 
as Epicurus : nothing good but exemption from 
pain, as Hieronymus : nothing good but the frui- 
tion of all, or the chief part of the prime goods of 
nature, as Carneades argued against the Stoics. 
Thus far the simple ; then the mixed. Three 
kinds of good, the greatest of the mind, second of 
the body, third external, as the Peripatetics, and 
not much different the ancient Academics. Pleas- 
ure with honesty, as coupled by Dinomachus and 
25* 



298 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Callipho : but the Peripatetic Diodorus joined 
indolency to honesty. These are opinions which 
have something of stability ; for those of Aristo y 
Pyrrho, Herillus, and some others have vanished. 
Let us see what these can obtain, omitting the 
Stoics, who appear to me to have defended their 
opinion satisfactorily. And, indeed, the cause of 
the Peripatetics has been explained ; except The- 
ophrastus and his followers, if any, who recoil and 
shrink from pain with rather too much imbecility. 
The rest, indeed, were free to do what they have 
commonly done, to exaggerate the gravity and 
dignity of virtue. And thus, having extolled her 
to the skies, which men of such eloquence usu- 
ally do with great copiousness, it is easy to de- 
press and despise the rest by contrast. Nor is it 
open for those who say praise is to be pursued at 
the cost of pain, to deny the happiness of those 
who obtain it. For, though they are in some 
troubles, this name of happy spreads far and 
wide ; for, as commerce is called gainful, and 
agriculture fruitful, not that the one is always 
without loss, or the other always exempt from the 
effects of the weather ; but when, for much the 
greater part, both are prosperous; thus life, not 
only if replenished with good on all hands, but if, 
by much the greater and weightier part, the good 
preponderates, may rightly be called happy. Thus, 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 299 

according to the system of these, the happy life 
will follow virtue to the torture, and descend with 
her into the bull, with warrant of Aristotle, Xenoc- 
rates, Speusippus, Polemo, nor, corrupted by fear 
or favour, will she desert her. The same will be 
the sentence of Callipho and Diodorus; both of 
whom so embrace honesty, that all things which 
are without it are to be thrown far behind, as they 
think. The rest appear to be rather in straits, 
but they keep afloat, Epicurus, Hieronymus, and, 
if any, who care to defend that deserted Carneades. 
For there is none but think the mind the judge of 
these goods, and instruct it to despise what has 
but the appearance of good and evil. For what 
the cause of Epicurus offers to your mind,, the 
same will be that of Hieronymus and Carneades ; 
and, by Hercules, of all the rest. For who is 
without proof armour against pain and death ? 

Let us take up the inquiry, then, if agreeable, 
with him we call the soft, the voluptuary. What ! 
will he appear to thee to fear death or pain, who 
calls that day happy on which he dies, and, in the 
midst of excruciating pains, baffles their rage by 
the memory and recollection of his inventions? 
nor appears to act this part like a man who assumes 
it to fit the time ? For such were his views of 
death, that, upon the dissolution of the living 
being, he deemed all sense extinct ; but, as to any 



300 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS, 

thing void of sense, he thought it was nothing to 
us. In regard, also, to pain, he had certain max- 
ims for his guidance : their magnitude was con- 
soled by brevity, their long continuance by levity. 
In short, what have they of the lofty style better 
than Epicurus, against these two most obstinate 
tormentors ? And as to the rest of reputed evils, 
is either Epicurus without preparation, or other 
philosopher whatever ? Who is not afraid of pov- 
erty? Yet not one of the philosophers. This 
very voluptuary, with how very little he was 
content! No man has said more in favour of 
moderate living. For the objects which stimulate 
the desire of money, as to have resources in abun- 
dance for love, for ambition, for the daily supply 
of sumptuous living, when opposed to them all, 
why should he greatly desire money, or, rather, 
why care for it at all ? Could the Scythian Ana- 
charsis hold money in contempt, and could our 
own philosophers not do the same ? His letter is 
extant in these words: — "Anacharsis with re- 
spects to Hanno." " My covering is the Scythian 
fur; the callous soles of my feet are my shoe- 
leather ; my bed, the earth ; my condiment, hun- 
ger; my diet, milk, cheese, flesh. Wherefore, 
you are welcome to come and witness my happi- 
ness ; but the presents you are so delighted with, 
bestow either on your fellow-citizens or the 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 301 

immortal gods." About all the philosophers of all 
the sects might have been of this mind, exclusive, 
perhaps, of those whom a vitiated nature had 
warped from right reason. Socrates, when a 
great quantity of gold and silver plate was borne 
in procession, — " How many things are here that 
I have no wish for ! " said he. Xenocrates, when 
ambassadors had brought him fifty talents from 
Alexander, — which, in those times, was a great 
fortune, especially at Athens, — invited them to 
sup with him at the Academy : he set before them 
merely enough, without parade. When, the next 
day, they asked him to whom he would have 
them pay over the money, — "What.!'* said he ? 
" did you not see, from the small supper of yes- 
terday, that I have no need of money ? " When 
he saw they were rather sad, however, he accept- 
ed thirty minas, to avoid the appearance of slight- 
ing the king's munificence. But Diogenes, how- 
ever, with more independence, as a Cynic, when 
Alexander had urged him, if he wanted any thing, 
to say it, — " Now, if you please, to move a little 
out of my light ; " for he shaded him as he was 
taking the sun. Indeed, he often used to argue 
how much he surpassed the king of Persia in life 
and fortune : to himself, nothing was wanting ; to 
that monarch, nothing could ever suffice : that he 
had no relish for the pleasures with which th§ 



302 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

other could never be satiated ; whereas, his own 
were such as all the power of Persia could not by 
any means obtain for its possessor. 

You know, I believe, how Epicurus divided the 
kinds of cupidities ; not very profoundly, perhaps, 
yet usefully : part natural and necessary ; part 
natural and not necessary ; part neuter : the neces- 
sary may be satisfied with almost nothing ; for the 
wants of nature are of easy provision. The sec- 
ond class of cupidities he judges neither difficult 
of indulgence nor forbearance : the third, being 
merely imaginary, sanctioned neither by necessity 
nor nature, he thinks are to be suppressed alto- 
gether. This point affords the Epicureans matter 
for ample discussion ; they extenuate these pleas- 
ures, one by one ; they do not condemn them gen- 
erally, but yet are content without superfluity. 
For as to the bashful pleasures, which they dis- 
course about diffusely, they were easy, common, 
and accessible to all ; and, if nature require them, 
eligible not with reference to descent, rank, for- 
tune, but youth, form, feature ; and nothing more 
easy than to slight them, should either health, or 
duty, or character, demand it ; and, upon the 
whole, this kind of pleasure, desirable if not preju- 
dicial, is never beneficial. And this whole theo- 
ry, as he taught it, pronounces pleasure always to 
be wished and pursued, because it is pleasure ; 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 303 

and, for the same reason, pain, because it is pain, 
is always to be avoided. And therefore the wise 
man will use such comparison of quantities, that 
he will avoid pleasure which is to cost a greater 
pain, and will encounter pain which is to produce 
a greater pleasure ; and that every thing pleasant, 
though judged by the senses, refers its perception 
to the mind. Wherefore, the body enjoys, while 
pleasure is present ; the mind at once perceives it 
present, in common with the body, foretastes it 
in prospect, nor even loses the relish of it past, 
which dwells in the memory. Thus, the pleas- 
ures of the sage are perpetual and interwoven; 
with whom the beams of hope blend, as it were, 
with the prisms of recollected delights. By much 
the same reasoning, also, he regulates the table, 
and reduces the magnificence and profuse expense 
of banquets ; because nature is content with small 
preparation. For who does not see, that every 
thing of this sort derives all its flavour from the 
vigour of appetite ? Darius, when in flight he 
had drank muddy water, tainted with carcasses, 
declared he had never tasted a pleasanter beverage. 
No doubt, he had never before drank thirsting. 
Nor had Ptolemy eaten hungry ; who, in taking 
the circuit of Egypt, had outmarched his escort, 
when some coarse bread being given him at a cot- 
tage, nothing had ever relished with him like that 



304 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS, 

biscuit. It is related of Socrates, that, walking 
rather brisk until evening, and being asked why 
he did it, he answered, he was preparing for a 
good supper, in the purchase of hunger by a walk. 
What ! do we not see the Lacedeemonians sup in 
ordinary, at tables spread in the streets ? where 
the tyrant Dionysius, having taken his repast, 
declared himself no admirer of that black broth ; 
which, however, was the main resource of the 
banquet. Then the artist who had prepared it, — 
" No wonder at all ; for the seasoning was want- 
ing." " What seasoning ? pray tell us," said he. 
A fatigue at hunting, a sweat, a race from the 
Eurotas, hunger, thirst. For these are the spices 
at a feast of the Spartans. And this may be seen 
not only from the custom of men, but is remark- 
able also in beasts ; who eat what is offered them, 
if suited to their nature, and, contented with that, 
want nothing more. Certain whole states, taught 
by custom, delight in a spare table, as we have 
stated already of the Lacedaemonians. The fare 
of the Persians is sketched by Xenophon ; who 
asserts they use nothing with bread, besides mus- 
tard : although, if nature should crave something 
even more palatable, how many things are pro- 
duced by the earth, and from trees, both of easy 
abundance and exquisite sweetness ! add the elas- 
ticity of body, which attends this moderation of 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 305 

diet ; add the firmness of health. Compare it 
with the banqueters, sweating, belching, crammed 
with feasts, like fat oxen ; then will you see, who 
pursue pleasure most, partake it the least; and 
that the pleasure of diet is found in appetite, not 
in surfeit. Timotheus, a brilliant man at Athens, 
and at the head of the state, we are told when he 
had supped with Plato, and was delighted with 
the repast, said, when he met him the next day, 
" Your suppers are not only pleasant for the time 
present, but even for the following day." What ! 
can even the mind itself be used rightly, stifled 
with the press of superfluous viands and libations ? 
There is extant an excellent epistle of Plato to the 
kinsmen of Dion, couched in nearly the following 
words : — "■ Where, when I had arrived, that hap- 
py life, which I had heard so much extolled, 
crowded with the dainties of the Italian and Syra- 
cusian tables, I found was not at all to my taste ; 
to be surfeited twice every day, and not allowed 
to pass even the night by myself, with the usual 
concomitants of such a life, in which no man will 
ever become wise ; and, indeed, to be moderate is 
out of the question. For what nature so admira- 
ble as could hope to resist ? " Then, how can a 
life be pleasant, which excludes prudence ? which 
banishes moderation ? Whence the error of Sar- 
danapalus, a very opulent king of Assyria, is ren- 
26 



306 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

dered more striking ; who ordered this inscription 
to be engraved on his monument : 

"What I have eaten, what my lust has shared, 
I have ; the rest, how much ! how fair ! I count for lost." 

What else, says Aristotle, would you inscribe on 
the tomb of an ox, instead of a king ? He says 
he has, when dead, what he had not, indeed, 
when alive, any longer than he enjoyed. Then, 
why should riches be desired ? or, wherein does 
poverty preclude happiness? In statues perhaps, 
pictures, games. Should there be any who de- 
light in these, does not the man *W slender means 
enjoy them more than even those with whom they 
most abound ? for in our city there is profusion in 
public of them all. For they who have them of 
their own, neither have so many, nor see them 
often ; or only when they visit their rural retreats : 
whom, after all, it stings somewhat, when they 
recollect whence they have them. The day 
would fail me, were I to defend the cause of 
poverty. The subject is plain ; and nature her- 
self daily admonishes how few, how small, how 
cheap is all she needs. Is it, then, obscurity, 
or mean condition, or even popular aversion, that 
will forbid the wise man to be happy? Take 
heed, lest the troubles outweigh the pleasure of 
this vulgar popularity, and this so much sought-for 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 307 

glory. Surely, our Demosthenes was not without 
levity ; who said he was delighted with that 
murmur of a little woman water-bearer, common 
to the custom of Greece, when she whispered 
another, " This is that Demosthenes." What 
more frivolous than this ? But how great an ora- 
tor ! We see, however, that he had learned to 
speak with others, — not much with himself. It 
should be understood, that neither popular glory 
is of itself desirable, nor the want of celebrity to 
be dreaded. " I came to Athens," says Democri- 
tus, " where not a soul knew me." The firm and 
grave man ! who glories that he was unknown to 
glory. But artists, who practise the flute or the 
lyre, regulate their melodies and music by their 
own judgment, and not by that of the multitude : 
the wise man, an adept in a far more important 
art, — is he to study, not the precepts of truth, but 
the capricious pleasure of the vulgar? Is any 
thing more foolish, than whom, single, you de- 
spise as drudges and barbarians, to think them 
something, when viewed as a whole? But the 
sage will contemn our ambitions and levities, 
and will decline the honours of the people, though 
laid at his feet. Yet we know not how to slight 
them, until the hour of repentance has arrived. 
It is written with Heraclitus the physiologist 
in regard to Hermodorus, an Ephesian noble, — 



308 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

16 The whole Ephesian people are worthy of death ? 
because, when they banished Hermodorus from 
their city, they voted thus : Not a man among us 
shall rise to singular excellence ; but, should any 
such man exist, let him go elsewhere, and reside 
with others." Does not the same thing occur 
with every people ? do they not hate all preemi- 
nence of virtue ? What ! in the example of Aris- 
tides, — for I prefer to instance from the Greeks, 
and omit our own, — was he not expelled from his 
country, because he was just beyond measure ? 
Then what troubles are escaped by those who 
have nothing to do with the affairs of the people ! 
For what is pleasanter than learned leisure? I 
intend such studies as embrace the whole of 
things, and of nature, the knowledge of the 
heavens, the earth, the seas of this universe. 
Then, with contempt for office, and with con- 
tempt also for money, what is there left to be 
feared ? Exile, I presume, because it involves 
the greatest evils. If it bear the appearance of 
evil on account of the offended will and alienated 
caprice of the people, how much that is to be 
despised, has been said already. But, if absence 
from country be misery, the provinces are filled 
with the unhappy, very few of whom ever revisit 
home. But exiles are ruined by the confiscation 
of their fortunes. What then ? are there not pre- 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 309 

cepts in multitude for the bearing of poverty ? 
But, really, if we consult the nature of things, 
not the opprobrium of the name, wherein does 
exile diifer from a permanent residence abroad? 
where the most celebrated philosophers have spent 
their lives, — Xenocrates, Grantor, Arcesilas, Lacy- 
des, Aristotle, Theophrastus, Zeno, Cleanthes, 
Chrysippus, Antipater, Carneades, Panaetius, Clito- 
machus, Philo, Antiochus, Posidonius, innumera- 
ble others ; who, after once leaving home,, have 
never returned. But the wise man is not affected 
by this opprobrium. For this whole discourse 
has reference to the sage ; to whom banishment 
cannot happen justly. Whereas the exile of jus- 
tice deserves no consolation. Finally, this sys- 
tem, which makes pleasure the sole object of all 
that is pursued in life, is of easy adaptation to all 
events ; for, in whatever place its votaries can find 
their chief good, there they can live happily. 
And therefore this motto of Teucer might apply to 
their whole theory. 

" Wherever is welfare, there is country. j; 

Indeed, Socrates, when he was asked, what coun- 
tryman he called himself, — " Universalian," he re- 
plied. For he thought himself the inhabitant and 
citizen of the whole universe. How was it with 
Titus Albutius ; did he not cultivate philosophy at 
26* 



310 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

Athens with all quiet of mind? and even that 
would not have befallen him, had he quiescent in 
the republic, obeyed the laws of Epicurus. But 
whgrein was Epicurus happier, because he lived 
in his country, than Metrodorus because he lived 
at Athens ? or Plato, than Xenocrates, or Polemo, 
than Arcesilaus ? But, after all, how much is that 
city to be prized, from which the wise and the 
good are expelled ? Indeed, Demaratus, father of 
our king Tarquin, because he could not endure 
the tyrant Cypselus, fled from Corinth to Tar- 
quinii, and there established his fortunes and fam- 
ily. Did he unwisely prefer the liberty of exile, 
to domestic servitude ? Already, however, the 
motions of the mind, its solicitudes and sorrows, 
are steeped in oblivion, the thoughts being trans- 
ferred to pleasure. Then, not without cause, has 
Epicurus dared to say, that the sage is always 
surrounded with good, because he is always in the 
midst of pleasures. Whence he thinks it demon- 
strated, this object of our inquiry, that the wise 
man is always happy. Even if deprived of the 
senses of seeing and hearing ? Yes, for he thinks 
even these accidents contemptible. In the first 
place, what are the pleasures precluded by this 
horrible blindness? when some even think the 
rest of the pleasures are seated in the senses them- 
selves ; whereas, those perceived through the eyes, 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 311 

impart no delight to that organ whatever ; what 
we taste, smell, touch, hear, affect that very part 
where the sensation is felt ; in the eyes it is not 
so. The mind receives what we see. But^ the 
mind may be amused in many and various modes, 
even without the assistance of sight. For I speak 
of a man of learning and erudition, for whom to 
live, is to think. But the meditation of the wise 
man does not commonly require the presence of 
the eyes for its exercise. And if night does not 
defeat the happy life, why should the day, which 
resembles night? For that sally of Antipater of 
Oyrene, though rather too indelicate, was not 
altogether absurd ; when some matrons were la- 
menting his blindness, — " Why do you mourn, ? " 
said he, " is there nothing nocturnal that is pleas- 
ant ? " Indeed, that ancient Appius, who was 
blind so many years, both from the offices he 
filled, and the affairs he transacted, appears not to 
have been wanting to his duties, whether public or 
private, through the effect of that infirmity. We 
are told that Caius Drusus used to have his house 
crowded with clients ; and when they could not 
see, themselves, to whom their estates belonged, 
came for guidance to a man without eyes. At 
the time of our boyhood, Cneius Aufidius, of 
Praetorian rank, used to deliver his opinion in the 
senate, attended the consultations of his friends, 



312 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

wrote a Greek history, and was clear-sighted in 
letters. Diodotus the Stoic, and blind 3 lived 
many years at our house. But a thing scarce 
credible, when he applied himself even more than 
ever to philosophy, and used the viol, in the style 
of the Pythagoreans, and had books read to him 
night and day, pursuits where eyes are not indis- 
pensable ; what appeared scarce possible without 
them, he prosecuted the science of geometry, 
directing his disciples verbally, whence, whither, 
and what lines to draw. Asclepiades, a philoso- 
pher of Eretria, of no mean celebrity, when some 
one inquired of him, what his blindness had 
brought him ? answered, " The company of another 
waiter." For, as even extreme poverty is tolerable, 
if we may judge from the daily condition of many 
Greeks ; so blindness is borne easily, where the 
resources of the sound are not deficient. Democ- 
ritus, sightless, could not discern, indeed, black 
from white ; but, at least, good from evil, equity 
from iniquity, honesty from dishonesty, utility 
from inutility, great from small, he could ; and he- 
might live happily without the discrimination of 
colours ; without the knowledge of things, he* 
could not. Indeed, he deemed the sight of the 
eyes an impediment to the mental ken ; and when 
others often did not see what was before their 
feet, had himself travelled through space, and 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 313 

transcended the extreme confines of the universe. 
We have the tradition, that Homer also was 
blind. But we see his painting, not poetry. 
What region, what shore, what spot of Greece, 
what species of form, what motion of man, what 
of beast, is not so depicted, that what he could 
not see himself, he has managed to make us 
see ? Then, what shall we think was deficient to 
the delight of the mind, whether to Homer, or to 
any learned man whatsoever ? If this were other- 
wise, would Anaxagoras, or this very Democritus, 
have left their fields and patrimonies, and devoted 
themselves to this divine delight of learning and 
investigating? And thus Tiresias the augur, 
whom the poets feign wise, is never introduced 
by them deploring his blindness. But Homer, 
when he feigned Polyphemus, a savage and bar- 
barous monster, also figures him in conversation 
with a ram, and praising his fortune, because he 
could walk where he would, and touch what he 
would. Rightly done, no doubt. For the Cy- 
clops himself was not at all wiser than that ram. 
But what is the harm of deafness ? Marcus Cras- 
sus was a little hard of hearing ; and, what was 
worse, unfortunately, he heard hard things ; al- 
though I used to think, not rightly. Our Epicu- 
reans are commonly ignorant of Greek ; while the 
Greeks are as ignorant of Latin. Thus, these are 



314 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

deaf to those, and those are deaf to these; and ? 
indeed, we are all deaf in those languages we are 
unskilled in ; which are innumerable. But they 
do not hear the voice of the minstrel ; nor even 
the screeching of the saw, when it is sharpened ; 
nor the squealing of the swine, when they are 
butchered ; nor, when they want repose, the roar 
of the troubled sea. But, if they happen to be 
partial to songs, they should reflect, in the first 
place, that many wise men have lived happily 
before they were invented ; and then, that there 
is far more pleasure in reading than in hearing 
them. Then, as a little before we transferred the 
blind to the pleasures of the ear, so now the deaf 
to those of the eye. For the man who can speak 
with himself, does not require the discourse of 
another. 

Let all things be heaped upon one ; so that ? 
when blind and deaf, he shall suffer the sharpest 
pains of the body ; which, in the first place, com- 
monly wear out the man ; but if, drawn into 
length, they should happen to press with more 
violence than there is cause for enduring, good 
heavens ! what is there to warrant our labour ? for 
the port is at hand ; because death is the same : 
the receptacle eternal for the thing which feels 
nothing. Theodoras to Lysimachus threatening 
death : Thou hast done something great indeed. 



VIRTUE SUFFICIENT FOR HAPPINESS. 6lO 

when thou hast rivalled the force of the cantharid 
fly. Paulus to Perseus, begging he might not be 
marched in triumph : That point is certainly in 
thy own power. Much was said the first day, 
when our subject was death ; not a little the 
second, when treating of pain ; which, whoever 
recollects, there is certainly no danger but he will 
think death either desirable, or at least not to be 
feared. Indeed, it appears to me, the same rule is 
to be observed in life, which is enforced at the 
Greek banquets : Let him drink, or depart. And 
rightly. For either let the guest enjoy with the 
rest the exhilarating cup, or, lest his sobriety be 
shocked by the excesses of the intoxicated, let 
him withdraw in season. So the rudeness of for- 
tune, which thou canst not endure, thou wilt 
escape by retiring. These lessons of Epicurus 
are delivered in about the same words by Hie- 
ronymus also. But, if these philosophers, whose 
opinion takes the ground, that virtue of herself is 
totally inefficient, and all that we call the honest 
and the laudable is an airy nothing, a mere bub- 
ble adorned by the empty sounds of the voice, 
and yet pronounce the wise man always happy, 
what dost think to be done by philosophers from 
the school of Socrates and Plato ? of whom, some 
say, the preeminence of mental good is such as to 
eclipse those of the body and fortune ; while 



316 THE TUSCULAN QUESTIONS. 

others consider these, indeed, not even to be 
called goods, but treasure their all in the mind. 
This controversy of theirs, Carneades used to de- 
termine as honorary arbiter. For, since the Stoics 
term conveniences the same things which the 
Peripatetics call goods, and because the Peripa- 
tetics still ascribe no more to riches, health, and 
other things of the same sort than the Stoics : 
where such subjects are to be weighed by the 
thing, and not by words ; he decided there was no 
ground for dissension. Wherefore, how philoso- 
phers of other schools will manage this point, it 
is for themselves to consider. It is grateful to me, 
however, that, in regard to the perpetual faculty 
of the wise for living well, they profess something 
worthy of the voice of philosophers. But, since 
in the morning we have to go, let us consign to 
memory these disputations of five days. Indeed, 
I think I shall commit them to writing, for 
where can we better dispose of this leisure, such 
as it is? — and send these other five books to our 
Brutus, by whom we were not impelled only, but 
even challenged to philosophical writings. Where- 
in, how much we are like to profit others, we 
could not easily say : certainly, for our own most 
bitter grief, and various, and on all hands besetting 
troubles, no other relief could be found. 









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